PORTRAIT  OF    LORD    LYTTON— ■' OWEN    MEREDITH." 


LUCILE 


OWEN     MEREDITH 


tVAjr,  let  the  stricken  deer  go  weep. 

The  hart  uttgalled play  : 
For  some  must  ivateh  ivhile  some  nnist  sleep  : 

Thus  runs  the  world  aruay." 


Family  Edition.     Fully  Illustrated  by  H.   N.  Cady. 
With  Border  by  W.  St.  John  Harper. 


■-■--<s 


sit**- 


COPYRIGHT,  1886, 

BV 

WHITE,  STOKES,  Ic  ALLEN. 


I  ON 


i,a    m  n    J  n  t  ^  e  v. 

I  DEDICATE  to  you  a  work,  which  is  submitted 
to  the  pubHc  with  a  diffidence  and  hesitation  pro- 
portioned to  the  novelty  of  the  effort  it  represents. 
For  in  this  poem  1  have  abandoned  those  forms 
of  verse  with  which  I  had  most  familiarized  my 
thoughts,  and  have  endeavored  to  follow  a  path  on 
which  I  could  discover  no  footprints  before  me, 
either  to  guide  or  to  warn. 

There  is  a  moment  of  profound  discouragement 
which  succeeds  to  prolonged  effort  ;  when,  the  la- 
bor which  has  become  a  habit  having  ceased,  we 
miss  the  sustaining  sense  of  its  companionship,  and 
stand,  with  a  feeling  of  strangeness  and  embarrass- 
ment, before  the  abrupt  and  naked  result.  As  re- 
gards myself,  in  the  present  instance,  the  force  of 
all  such  sensations  is  increased  by  the  circum- 
stances to  which  1  have  referred.  And  in  this  mo- 
ment of  discouragement  and  doubt,  my  heart  in- 
stinctively turns  to  you,  from  whom  it  has  so  often 
sought,  from  whom  it  has  never  failed  to  iect'i\  c, 
support. 


i 


^ 

'^*' 

^ 


DEDICA  TIOX.  ' 

I  do  not  inscribe  to  you  this  book  because  it  con- 
tains anything  that  is  worthy  the  beloved  and  hon- 
ored name  with  which  I  thus  seek  to  associate  it  : 
nor  yet  because  I  would  a\ail  myself  of  a  vulgar 
pretext  to  (lisjjlav  in  pul)lic  an  affection  that  is  best 
honored  b}"  the  silence  which  it  renders  sacrefl. 

Feelings  only  such  as  those  with  which,  in  days 
when  there  existed  for  me  no  critic  less  gentle  than 
)  ourself,  1  brought  to  you  my  childish  manuscripts  ; 
feelings  only  such  as  those  which  have,  in  later 
years,  associated  with  your  heart  all  that  has 
nio\ed  or  occupied  m)'  own, — lead  me  once  more 
to  seek  assurance  from  the  grasp  of  that  hand 
wiiich  has  hitherto  been  my  guide  and  comfort 
liirough  the  life  I  owe  to  you. 

And  as  in  childhood,  when  existence  had  no  toil 
beyond  the  day's  simple  lesson,  no  ambition  be- 
yond the  neighboring  ai)proval  of  the  night,  I 
brought  to  you  the  morning's  task  for  the  evening's 
sanction,  so  now  I  bring  to  you  this  self-a])pointed 
task-work  of  maturer  years  ;  less  confident  indeed 
of  your  approval,  but  not  less  confident  of  your 
l()\  e ;  and  anxious  only  to  realize  your  presence 
between  myself  and  the  public,  and  to  mingle  with 
those  severer  voices,  to  whose  final  sentence  I  sub- 
mit my  work,  the  beloved  and  gracious  accents  of 
vour  own. 

OWEN  MllRI'.DirH. 


^gna 


\  B  R  A  /? 
"  or  THi 

UNIVERSITY 


LUCILE 


PART    1  . 

CANTO  1. 

I. 

Letter  from  the  Comtesse  de  Nevers  to 
Lord  Alfred  Vargrave. 

"  I  hear  from  Bigorre  you  are  there.     I  am  lokl 
You  are  going  to  marry  Miss  Darcy.     Of  old, 
So  long  since  you  may  haw  forgotten  it  now. 
(When  we  parted   as  friends,  soon  mere  strangers 

to  grow,) 
Your  last  words  recorded  a  pledge — what  you  will— 
A  promise — the  time  is  now  come  to  fulfil. 
The  letters  I  ask  you,  my  lord,  to  return, 
I  desire  to  receive  from  your  hand.     You  discern 
My  reasons,  which,  therefore,  I  need  not  explain. 
The  distance  to  Luchon  is  short.     I  remain 
A   month   in  these   mountains.      Miss   Darcy.  per- 
chance. 
Will  forego  one  brief  page  from  the  summer  romance 
Of  her  courtship,  and  spare  you  one  day  from  your 

place 
At  her  feet,  in  the  light  of  her  fair  English  face. 


6 


LUC  ILL. 


1  desire  nothinj;  more,  .iiul  I  trust  you  will  feel 
I  desire  nothinfj  imicli. 

■•  \'our  friend  always, 

••  l.lcil.K." 
II. 
I\"ow  in  May  Fair,  of  course. — in  the  fair  month  of 

May — 
^\■hen  life  is  abundant,  and  busy,  and  <jay  ; 
When  the  markets  of  London  are  noisy  about 
Younj^-  ladies,  rnd  strawberries, — "only  just  out :" 
Fresii  strawberries  sold  under  all  the  house-eaves, 
And  young  ladies  on  sale  for  the  sirawberry-leaves  : 
When  cards,  invitations,  and  three-corner'd  notes 
Fly  about  like  while  butterflies — gay  little  motes 
In  the  sunbeam  of  Fashion  ;  and  even  HUic  I>ooks 
Take  a  heavy-wing'd  flight,  and  grow  busy  as  rooks  ; 
And  the  postman  (that  (lenius,  indifferent  and  stern. 
Who  shakes  out  even-handed  to  all,  from  his  urn. 
Those  lots  which  so  often  decide  if  our  day 
Sliall  be  fretful  and  an.\ious,  or  joyous  and  gay) 
Brings, eachmorning.more  lettersof  one  sort  or  other 
Tnan  Cadmus,  himself,  put  together,  to  bother 
The  heads  of  Hellenes  ; — I  say,  in  the  season 
Of  Fair  Mav,  in  May  Fair,  there  can  be  no  reason 
Why,  when  quietly  munching    your  dry-toast  and 

butler. 
Your  nerves  should  be  suddenly  thrown  in  a  flutter 
At  the  sight  of  a  neat  little  letter,  address'd 
In  a  woman's  handwriting,  containing,  half  guess'd. 
An  odor  of  violets  fa'int  as  the  Spring, 
And  ((Xjueltishly  seal'd  with  a  small  signet-ring. 


L  UCILE.  1 

But  in  Autumn,  the  season  of  sombre  reflection. 
When  a  damp  day,  at  breakfast,  begins  with  dejec- 
tion ; 
Far  from  London  and  Paris,  and  ill  at  one's  ease. 
Away  in  the  heart  of  the  blue  Pyrenees, 
Where  a  call  from  the  doctor,  a  stroll  to  the  bath. 
A  ride  through  the  hills  on  a  hack  like  a  lath, 
A  cigar,  a  French  novel,  a  tedious  flirtation. 
Are  all  a  man  finds  for  his  day's  occupation. 
The  whole  case,  believe  me,  is  totally  changed. 
And  a  letter  may  alter  the  plans  we  arranged 
Over-night,  for  the  slaughter  of  Time— a  wild  beast. 
Which,  though  classified  yet  by  no  naturalist. 
Abounds  in  these  mountains,  more  hard  to  ensnare. 
And  more  mischievous,  too,  than  the  Lynx  or  the 
Bear. 

in. 
I  marvel  less,  therefore,  that,  having  already 
Torn  open  this  note,  with  a  hand  most  unsteady. 
Lord  Alfred  was  startled. 

The  month  is  Sei)tember  ; 
Time,  morning  ;  the  scene  at  Bigorre  ;  (pray  remem- 
ber 
These  facts,  gentle  reader,  because  I  intend 
To  fling  all  the  unities  by  at  the  end.) 
He  walk'd  to  the  window.  The  morning  was  chill  : 
The  brown  woods  were  crisp'd  in  the  cold  on  the 

hill : 
The  sole  thing  abroad  in  the  streets  was  the  wind  : 
And  the  straws  on  the  gust,  like  the  thoughts  in  his 
mind. 


^^iil^ 


m 


L  UCILE. 

Rose,  and  eddied  around  and  around,  as  the'  leasing 
Each  other.    The  prospect,  in  truth,  was  unpleasinjr  : 
And  Lord  Alfred,  whilst  moodily  gazing  around  ii, 
To  himself  more  than  once  (vex'd  in  soul)  sigh'f! 
"  Confound  it  !  " 


What  the  thoughts  were  which  led  to  this  bad  inter- 
jection, 

Sir,  or  Madam,  I  leave  to  your  future  detection  ; 

For  whatever  they  were,  they  were  burst  in  upon, 

As  the  door  was  burst  through,  by  my  lord's  Cousin 
John. 

Cou.siN  John. 

A  fool,  Alfred,  a  fool,  a  most  motley  fool  \ 

Lord  Alfred. 

Who.' 
John. 

The  man  who  has  anything  better  to  do  ; 
And  yet  so  far  forgets  himself,  so  far  degrades 
His  position  as  Man,  to  this  worst  of  all  trades, 
Which  even  a  well-brought-up  ape  were  abo\e. 
To  travel  about  with  a  woman  in  love, — 
Unless  she's  in  love  with  himself. 


Alfred. 

Are  you  here  then,  dear  Jack  ? 
John. 


Indeed  !  wh\ 


Can't  you  guess  it  } 


Alfred 


Not  I. 


L  UCILE.  9 

John. 
Because  I  have  nothing  that's  better  to  do. 
I  had  rather  be  bored,  my  dear  Alfred,  by  you, 
On  the  whole  (I  must  own),  than  be  bored  by  my- 
self. 
That  perverse,  imperturbable,  golden-hair'd  elf — 
Your  Will-o'-the-wisp— that  has  led  you  and  me 
Such  a  dance  through  these  hills— 
Alfred. 

Who,  Matilda  } 
John. 

Yes !  she. 

Of  course  !  who  but  she  could  contrive  so  to  keep 
One's  eyes,  and  one's  feet  too,  from  falling  asleep 
For  even  one  half-hour  of  the  long  twenty-four? 

Alfred. 
What's  the  matter  ? 

John. 
Why,  she  is— a  matter,  the  more 
I  consider  about  it,  the  more  it  demands 
An  attention  ii  does  not  deserve ;  and  expands 
Beyond  the  dimensions  which  ev'n  crinoline. 
When  possess'd  by  a  fair  face  and  saucy  Eighteen, 
Is  entitled  to  take  in  this  very  small  star, 
Already  too  crowded,  as  /think,  by  far. 
You  read  Malthus  and  Sadler  ? 

Alfred. 

Of  course. 
John. 

To  what  use. 

When    you  countenance,   calmly,   such    monstrour 

abuse 


■'\"A 


JO  LUCILE. 

Of  one  mere  human  creature's  le<;itimatc  space 
In  this  world?     Mars,  Apollo,  Virorum  !  the  case 
Wholly  passes  my  patience. 

Alfred. 

My  own  is  worse  tried. 

J(JHN. 
Yours,  Alfred  ? 

Alfred. 
Read  this,  if  you  doubt,  and  decide. 

John  {rfadttig  the  letter). 
"  I  hear  fj'om  Bigorre  you  are  there.     I  a)ii  tolit 
)'o!(  are gonig  to  marry  Miss  Darcy.      Of  old — " 

What  is  this  ? 

Alfred. 
Read  it  on  to  the  end,  and  you'll  know. 

John  {continues  reading"). 
"When   we  parted,  your  last   words    recorded  a 

Tcm'  — 
W^hat yo7i  will"  .  .  . 

Hang-  it !  this  smells  all  over,  1  swear. 
Of  adventures  and  violets.     Was  it  your  hair 
You  promised  a  lock  of  ? 

Alfred. 

Read  on.     You'll  discern. 

John  (continues). 
"  Those  letters  I  asic you,  my  lord,  to  return."   .  .   . 
Humph  I  .  .  .    Letters  !  .  .  .  the   matter   is  worse 

than  I  guess'd  ; 
1   have  my  misji^ivings — 


WL: 


^ 


ii«.r-^-   J'  ^jtisa 


L  UCILE.  1 1 

Alfrkd. 

Well,  read  out  the  rest. 

And  advise. 

John. 

Eh  ?  .  .  .  Where  was  I  ?  .  .  . 
{^continues) 

"  Miss  Darcy,  perchance. 
Will  forego  one   brief  page  from    the  summer 

romance 
Of  her  courtship."  .  ■  ■ 

Egacl  I  a  romance,  for  my  part, 
I'd  forego  every  page  of,  and  not  break  my  heart ! 
Alkrkd. 

Continue! 

John  {rciuring}. 

-Am/ spare  you  one  day  from  your  place 

At  her  feel."  ... 

Pray  forgive  me  the  passmg  grmiace. 

I  wish  you  had  MY  place  1 

{7-eads) 

'•  I  trust  you  will  feel 
I  desire  nothing  much.     Your  friend"  ..  . 

Bless  me  !  "  Luetic   f 

The  Comtesse  de  Nevers  ? 

Alfred. 

Yes. 

John.  ,    . 

What  will  you  do  ^ 

Alfred. 
You  ask  me  just  what  1  would  ratht-r  ask  vou. 


r 


You  can't  "'o. 


L  UCFLE. 


John. 


Alfred. 

I  must. 

John. 

And  Matilda  ? 

Alfrel^. 

Oh,  that 

You  must  manage ! 

John. 
Must  1  ?     I  decline  it,  though,  flat. 
In  an  hour  the  horses  will  beat  the  door. 
And  Matilda  is  now  in  her  habit.     Before 
I  have  finish'd  my  breakfast,  of  course  I  receive 
.A.   message  for  "  dear  Cousin  Jo/in  .'"  ...   I  must 

leave 
At  the  jeweller's  the  bracelet  which  vo//  broke  last 

night  ; 
I  must  call  for  the  music.     "  Dear  Alfred  is  right : 
The  black  shawl  looks  best :  7e////  I  change  it  ?     Of 

course 
I  can  just  sto[),  in  passing,  lo  order  the  horse. 
Then  lieau   has  the   mumps,  or   St.    Hubert    knows 

what  ; 
IV/// \  seethe   dog-doctor?"     Hang    Beau!    I  will 

nof. 

Alfred. 
Tush,  tush  I  this  is  serious. 


John. 


It  is. 


Al.FRKl). 

\'ery  well. 

You  must  think — 

John. 

What  excuse  will  you  make,  tho'  ? 

Alfred. 

Oh,  tell 

Mrs.  Darcy  that  .  .  .  lend  me  your  wits.  Jack!  .   .  . 

the  deuce ! 
Can  you  not  stretch  your  genius  to  fit  a  friend's 

use  ? 
Excuses  are  clothes  which,  when  asked  unawares. 
Good  Breeding  to  naked  Necessity  spares. 
You  must  have  a  whole  wardrobe,  no  doubt. 

John. 

My  dear  fellow, 

Matilda  is  jealous,  you  know,  as  Othello. 

Alfred. 

You  joke. 

John. 

I  am  serious.     Why  go  to  Luchon  ? 
Alfred. 
Don't  ask  me.     1  have  not  a  choice,  my  dear  John. 
Besides,  shall  I  own  a  strange  sort  of  desire, 
Before  1  extinguish  forever  the  fire 
Of  youth  and  romance,  in  whose  shadowy  light 
Hope  whisper'd  her  first  fairy  tales,  to  excite 
The    last  spark,  till    it  rise,  and    fade  far    in   that 

da\\n 
Of  my  da\  s  where  the  twilights  of  life  were  first 

drawn 


lt'#1 


-i^' 


rl£^.^««.^ 


14 


LUCILE. 


,^^y 


By  the  rosy,  reluctant  auroras  of  Love  : 
In  short,  from  the  dead  Past  the  gravestone  tt)  move  ; 
Of  the  years  long  departed  forever  to  take 
One  last  look,  one  final  farewell ;  to  awake 
The  Heroic  of  youth  from  the  Hades  of  jov. 
And  once  more  be,  though  hut  for  an   hour.  Jack — 
a  boy  ! 

John. 

You  had  better  go  hang  yourself. 

Alfred. 

No  !  were  it  i)ut 
To  make  sure  that  the  Past  from  the  Future  is  shut. 
It  were  worth  the  step   back.     Do    you  think  we 

should  live 
With  the  living  so  lightly,  and  learn  to  survive 
That  wild  moment   in  which   to  the  grave  and  its 

gloom 
We  consign 'd  our  heart's  best,  if  the  doors  of  the 

toinb 
Were  not   lock'd  with  a  kev  which   Fate  keeps  for 

our  sake  ? 
If  the  dead  could  return,  or  the  corpses  awake  ? 

John. 
Nonsense ! 

Alkkkd. 

Not  wholly.      i'hr  man  wh(i  gets  u]) 
.•\  rill'd  guest  from  the  han(|uet.  and    drains    otf  his 

cup. 
Sees  the  last   lamj)  extinguish 'd    with    chrcrfuliiess, 

goes 
Well  contented  to  bed.  and  enjoNs  its  repose. 


W 


'7"%. 


■m 


L  UCILE. 


15 


^" 


But  he  who  hath  supp'd  at  the  tables  of  kings, 
And  yet  starved  in  the  sight  of  luxurious  things  ; 
Who  hath   watch'd  the  wine   flow,  by  himself   but 

half  tasted. 
Heard   the  music,  and  yet  miss'd   the  tune  ;  who 

hath  wasted 
One  part  of  life's  grand  possibilities  ; — friend, 
That  man  will  bear  with  him,  be  sure,  to  the  end, 
A  blighted  experience,  a  rancor  within  : 
You  may  call  it  a  virtue,  I  call  it  a  sin. 

John. 
I  see  you  remember  the  cynical  story 
Of  that  wicked  old  piece  of  Experience— a  hoary 
Lothario,  whom  dying,  the  priest  by  his  bed 
(Knowing  well  the  unprincipled  life  he  had  led. 
And  observing,  with  no  small  amount  of  surprise, 
Resignation  and  calm  in  the  old  sinner's  eyes) 
Ask'd  if  he  had  nothing  that  weigh'd  on  his  mind  : 
"  Well,  .  .  .  no,"  .  .  .  says  Lothario,  "  I  think  not. 

I  find. 
On   reviewing  my  life,   which   in  most   things  was 

pleasant, 
I  never  neglected,  when  once  it  was  present. 
An  occasion  of  pleasing  myself.     On  the  whole, 
I  have  naught  to  regret  ;"  .  .  .  and  so,  smiling,  his 

soul 
Took  its  flight  from  this  world. 
Alfred. 

Well,  Regret  or  Remorse, 
Which  is  best  ? 


i6 


L  UC/LE. 


John. 
Why,  Regret. 

Alfred. 

Xo  ;  Remorse,  Jack,  of  course  ; 
For  the  one  is  related,  be  sure,  to  the  other. 
Regret  is  a  spiteful  old  maid  :  but  her  brother, 
Remorse,  though  a  widower  certainly,  yet 
Has  been  wed  to  young  Pleasure.     Dear  Jack,  hang 
Regret  ! 

John. 

I^ref !  you  mean,  then,  to  go  ? 

Alfred. 

Brcf!  I  do. 
John. 

One  word  .  .  .  stay  ! 
Are  you  really  in  love  with  Matilda.'' 

Alfred. 

Love,  eh  "^ 
What  a  c|uestion  !     Of  course. 

John. 

Were  you  really  in  love 
With  Madame  de  Nevers  ? 

Alfred. 

What  ;   Lucile?     No,  bv  Jove, 
Never  really. 

John. 

She's  pretty .' 

Alfred. 

Decidedly  so. 
At  least,  so  she  was,  some  ten  summers  ago. 


L  UCILE. 

As  soft,  and  as  sallow  as  Autumn— with  hair 
Neither  black,  nor  yet  brown,  but  that  tinge  which 

the  air 
Takes  at  eve  in  September,  when  night  lingers  lone 
Through  a  vineyard,  from  beams  of  a  slow-setting 

sun. 
Eyes— the   wistful    gazelle's;     the    fine    foot    of   a 

fairy ; 
And  a  hand  fit  a  fay's  wand  to  wave,— white  and 

airy ; 
A  voice  soft  and  sweet  as  a  tune  that  one  knows. 
Something  in  her  there  was,  set  you  thinking  of  those 
Strange  backgrounds  of  Raphael .  .  .  that  hectic  and 

deep 
Brief  twilight  in  which  southern  suns  fall  asleep. 

John. 

Coquette  ? 

Alfred. 

Not  at  all.      'T  was  her  one  fault.     Not  she  ! 
I  had  loved  her  the  better,  had  she  less  loved  me. 
The  heart  of  a  man  's  like  that  delicate  weed 
Which  requires  to  be  trampled  on,  boldly  indeed. 
Ere  it  give  forth  the  fragrance  you  wish  to  extract. 
'T  is  a  simile,  trust  me,  if  not  new,  exact. 


Women  change  so. 


John. 

Alfred. 
Of  course. 
John. 


i8 


L  UCILE. 


:\?^ 


I  believe  that,  last  year,  the  Comtesse  de  Nevers'"' 
Was  at  Baden  the  rage — held  an  absolute  court 
Of  devoted  adorers,  and  really  made  sport 

Of  her  subjects. 

Alfred. 

Indeed  I 

John. 

When  she  broke  off  with  you 
Her  engagement,  her  heart  did  not  break  with  it  ? 

Alfred. 

Pooh  ! 

Pray  would  you  have  had  her  dress  always  in  black. 

And  shut  herself  up  in  a  convent,  dear  Jack  ? 

Besides,  't  was  my  fault  the  engagement  was  broken. 

John. 
Most  likely.     How  was  it? 

Alfred. 

The  tale  is  soon  spoken. 
She  bored  me.  I  show'd  it.  She  saw  it.  What  ne.xt  } 
She  reproach'd.   I  retorted.    Of  course  she  was  vex'd. 

*  O  Shakespeare  !  how  couldst  Ukju  ask  "  What's  in  a  name?" 
'T  is  the  devil  's  in  it,  when  a  bard  has  to  frame 
English  rhymes  for  alliance  with  names  that  are  French  : 
And  in  these  rhymes  of  mine,  well  I  know  that  I  trench 
All  too  far  on  that  license  which  critics  refuse, 
With  just  right,  to  accord  to  a  well-brought-up  Muse. 
Yet,  tho'  faulty  the  union,  in  many  a  line, 
'Twixt  my  British-born  verse  and  my  French  heroine, 
Since,  however  auspiciously  wedded  they  be, 
There  is  many  a  pair  that  yet  cannot  agree. 
Your  forgiveness  for  this  pair,  the  author  invites. 
Whom  necessity,  not  inclination,  unites. 


i2«|^ 


IHp- 


-V- 


L  UCILE. 


19 


Iwasvex'dthatshewasso.     She  sulkU     ho  did  1. 

If  1  ask'd  her  to  sing,  she  look'd  ready  to  cr>-. 

1  was  contrite,  submissive.   Shesoften'd.   I  harden  d. 

At  noon  I  was  banish'd.     At  eve  1  was  pardon  d. 

She  said  I  had  no  heart.     1  said  she  had  no  reason 
I  swore   shetalk'd   nonsense.     She  sobb'd  I  talk  d 

treason. 
In  short,  mv  dear  fellow,  't  was  tune,  as  you  see. 
Things  should  come   to  a  crisis,  and  finish.    T  was 

By  who.n  to  that  crisis  the  matter  was  brought. 
She  released  me.    1  linger-d.    I  lingered,  she  thought, 
With  too  sullen  an  aspect.    This  gave  me,  of  course, 
The  occasion  to  fly  in  a  rage,  mount  my  horse. 
And  declare  myself  uncomprehended.     And  so 
We  parted.     The  rest  of  the  story  you  know. 
John. 

No,  indeed. 

Alfred. 

Well,  we  parted.     Of  course  we  could  not 
Continue  to  meet,  as  before,  in  one  spot. 
You  conceive  it  was  awkward?     Even  Don  Ferdi- 

nando 
Can  do,  you  remember,  no  more  than  he  can  do. 
I  think  that  I  acted  exceedingly  well. 
Considering  the  time  when  this  rupture  befell. 
For  Paris  was  charming  just  then.     It  deranged 
All  my  plans  for  the  winter.    I  ask'd  to  be  changed 
Wrote  for  Naples,  then  vacant-obtam'd  ,t-and  so 
Join'd  my  new  post  at  once  ;  but  scarce  reach  d  ,t, 
when  lo  ! 


■0' 


20  L  UCILE. 

My  first  news  from  Paris  informs  me  Lucile 

Is  ill,  and  in  danger.     Conceive  what  I  feel. 

I  fly  back.     I  find  her  recover'd,  but  yet 

Looking  pale.     I  am  seized  with  a  contrite  regret ; 

I  ask  to  renew  the  engagement. 


John. 
Alfred. 


And  she  ? 


Reflects,  but  declines.     We  part,  swearing  to  be 
Friends  ever,  friends  only.     All  that  sort  of  thing  I 
We  each  keep  our  letters  ...  a  portrait .  .  .  a  ring  .  .  . 
With  a  pledge  to  return  them  whenever  the  one 
Or  the  other  shall  call  for  them  back. 

John. 

Pray  go  on. 
Alfred. 
My  storv  is  finish'd.     Of  course  I  enjoin 
On  Lucile  all  those  thousand  good  maxims  we  coin 
To  supply  the  grim  deficit  found  in  our  days, 
When  Love  leaves  them  bankrupt.     I  preach.     She 

obeys. 
She  goes  out  in  the  world  ;  takes  to  dancing  once 

more, — 
A  pleasure  she  rarely  indulged  in  before. 
I  go  back  to  my  post,  and  collect  (I  must  own 
'T  is  a  taste  I  had  never  before,  my  dear  John) 
Antiques  and  small  Elzevirs.     Heigho  !   now.  Jack, 
You  know  all. 

John  {affcr  a  pause). 

You  are  reallv  resolved  to  gfo  back  } 


LUCILE. 

Alfred. 

Eh,  where  ? 

John. 

To  that  worst  of  all  places— the  past. 
You  remember  Lot's  wife  ? 

Alfred. 

'T  was  a  promise  when  last 
We  parted.     My  honor  is  pledged  to  it. 

John. 

Well, 

What  is  it  you  wish  me  to  do  ? 

Alfred. 

You  must  tell 

Matilda,  I  meant  to  have  call'd— to  leave  word- 
To  explain— but  the  time  was  so  pressing— 

John. 

My  lord, 

Your  lordship's  obedient !   I  really  can't  do  .  .  . 

Alfred. 
You  wish  then  to  break  off  my  marriage  ? 

John. 

No,  no ! 

But  indeed  I  can't  see  why  yourself  you  need  take 

These  letters. 

Alfred. 

Not  see  ?  would  you  have  me.  then,  break 
A  promise  my  honor  is  pledged  to  ? 


John  {humming). 
And  away  !  said  the  stranger  "  . 


n 


"  Of,  off. 


22  LUCILE. 

Al.FRKD. 

Oh,  ^ood  I  oh,  you  scoff  ! 
John. 
At  what,  my  dear  Alfred  ? 

ALFRKI). 

At  all  things  ! 

John. 

Indeed.? 
Alfred. 
^'es  ;   I  see  that  your  heart  is  as  dry  as  a  reed  : 
That  the  dew  of  your  youth  is  rubb'd  off  you  :  1  see 
You  have  no  feeling  left  in  you,  even  for  me  ! 
At  honor  you  jest  ;  you  are  cold  as  a  stone 
To  the  warm  voice  of   friendshij).     Belief  you  have 

none  ; 
You  have  lost  faith  in  all  things.  You  carry  a  blight 
About  with  you  everywhere.     Yes,  at  the  sight 
Of  such  callous  indifference,  who  could  be  calm  ? 
T  must  leave  you  at  once,  Jack,  or  else  the  last  balm 
That  is  left  me  in  Gilead  you  '11  turn  into  gall. 
11  rartless,  cold,  unconcern 'd  .  .  . 

•    John. 
Have  you  done  .-'     Is  that  all  ? 
Well,  then,  listen  to  me  !  I  presume  when  you  made 
Up  your  mind  to  propose  to  Miss  Darcy,  you  weigh 'd 
All  the  drawbacks  against  the  equivalent  gains, 
ICre  you  finally  settled  the  jjoint.     What  remains 
\\\\\  to  stick  to  vour  choice  ?     You  want  money  :  't  is 
here. 


11^/ 


rs?^-.5 


f 


L  UCILE. 


23 


A  settled  position  :  't  is  yours.     A  career  : 

You  secure  it.     A  wife,  young,  and  pretty  as  rich. 

Whom  all  men  will  envy  you.     Why  must  you  itch 

To  be  running  away,  on  the  eve  of  all  this, 

To  a  woman  whom  never  for  once  did  you  miss 

All    these  years  since  you  left  her  !>     Who  knows 

what  may  hap  ? 
This  letter — to  ;//<— is  a  palpable  trap. 
The  woman  has  changed  since  you  knew  her.  Per- 
chance 
She  yet  seeks  to  renew  her  youth's  broken  romance. 
When  women  begin  to  feel  youth  and  their  beauty 
Slip  from  them,  they  count  it  a  sort  of  a  duty 
To  let  nothing  else  slip  away  unsecured 
Which   these,  while   they  lasted,  might    once    have 

procured. 
Lucile's  a  coquette  to  the  end  of  her  t^ngers, 
I    will   stake   my  last  farthing.     Perhaps  the  wish 

lingers 
To  recall  the  once  reckless,  indifferent  lover 
To  the  feet  he  has  left ;  let  intrigue  now  recover 
What  truth  could  not  keep.     'T  were  a  vengeance. 

no  doubt — 
A  triumph  ;-but  why  x^msx you  bring  it  about. 
You    are    risking  the  substance   of    all    that    you 

schemed 
To  obtain;  and  for  what ?    some  mad  dream  you 
have  dream 'd. 

Alfred. 
But  there's  nothing  to  risk.     You  exaggerate,  Jack. 
You  mistake.  In  three  days,  at  the  most.  1  am  back. 


f 


LUCILE. 

John. 
Ay,  but  how  ?  .  .  .  discontented,  unsettled,  upset. 
Bearing  with  you  a  comfortless  twinge  of  regret ; 
Preoccupied,  sulky,  and  likely  enough 
To  make  your  betroth'd  break  off  all  in  a  huff. 
Three  days,  do  you  say  ?     But  in  three  days  who 

know'S 
What  may  happen  ?    I  don't,  nor  do  you,  I  suppose. 

V. 

Of  all  the  good  things  in  this  good  world  around  us, 
The  one  most  abundantly  furnish'd  and  found  us. 
And  which,  for  that  reason,  we  least  care  about, 
And  can  best  spare  our  friends,  is  good  counsel. 

no  doubt. 
But  advice,  when  't  is  sought  from  a  friend  (though 

civility 
May  forbid  to  avow  it),  means  mere  liability 
In  the  bill  we  already  have  drawn  on  Remorse. 
Which  we  deem  that  a  true  friend  is  bound  to  in- 
dorse. 
A  mere  lecture  on  debt  from  that  friend  is  a  bore. 
Thus,  the  better  his  cousin's  advice  was,  the  more 
Alfred  Vargrave  with  angry  resentment  opposed  it. 
And,  having  the  worst  of  the  contest,  he  closed  it 
With  so  tirm  a  resolve  his  bad  ground  to  maintain. 
That,  sadly  perceiving  resistance  was  vain. 
And  argument  fruitless,  the  amiable  Jack 
Came  to  terms,  and  assisted  his  cousin  to  pack 
A  slender  valise  (the  one  small  condescension 
Which  his  final  remonstrance  obtain 'd).  whose  di- 
mension 


^ 


^ 


L  UCILE. 


25 


Excluded  large  outfits  ;  and,  cursing  his  stars,  he 
Shook  hands  with  his  friend  and  return'd  to  Miss 
Darcy. 

VI. 

Lord  Alfred,  when  last  to  the  window  he  turn'd. 
Ere  he  lock'd  up  and  quitted  his  chamber,  discern'd 
Matilda  ride  by,  with  her  cheek  beaming  bright 
In  what  Virgil  has  call'd   '  Youth's  purpureal  light' 
(I  like  the  expression,  and  can't  find  a  better). 
He  sigh'd  as  he  look'd  at  her.     Did  he  regret  her  ? 
In  her  habit  and  hat,  with  her  glad  golden  hair. 
As  airy  and  blithe  as  a  blithe  bird  in  air. 
And  her  arch  rosy  lips,  and  her  eager  blue  eyes, 
With  their  little  impertinent  look  of  surprise, 
And  her  round  youthful  figure,  and  fair  neck,  be- 
low 
The  dark  drooping  feather,  as  radiant  as  snow,— 
I  can  only  declare,  that  if  /  had  the  chance 
Of  passing  three  days  in  the  exquisite  glance 
Of   those   eyes,    or   caressing   the   hand  that  now 

petted 
That  fine  English  mare,  I   should  much   have  re- 
gretted 
Whatever  might  lose  me  one  little  half-hour 
Of  a  pastime  so  pleasant,  when  once  in  my  power. 
For,   if  one  drop  of  milk  from  the   bright  Milky 

Way 
Could  turn    into    a   woman,  't  would  look,   I   dare 

say, 
Not  more  fresh  than  Matilda  was  looking  that  day. 


""% 


L  UCTLE. 


But  whatever  the  feeling  that  prompted  the  sigh 
With  which  Alfred  Vargrave  now  watch'd  her  ride 

by. 

1  can  only  afifinn  that,  in  watching  her  ride. 

As  he  turn'd  from  the  window,  he   certainly  sigh'd. 


CANTO    II. 

I. 

Letter  from  Lord  Alfred  Vargrave  to 

THE   COMTESSE    DE    NEVERS. 

"  BlGoRKK,    Tuesday. 

"Your   note,   Madam,   reach'd   me   to-day,  at   Bi- 

gorre, 
And  commands  (need  I  add  ?j  my  obedience.     Be- 
fore 
The  night  I  shall  be  at  Luchon — where  a  line, 
If  sent  to  Duval's,  the  hotel  where  I  dine. 
Will  find  me,  awaiting  your  orders.     Receive 
My  respects. 

"  Yours  sincerely, 

"A.  Varoravk. 

•'  I  leave 
In  an  hour." 

II. 

In  an  hour  from  the  time  he  wrote  this, 
Alfred  Vargrave,  in  tracking  a  mountain  abyss, 
(iave  the  rein  to  his  steed  and   his   thoughts,  and 
pursued. 


ri^ 


L  UCILE. 


27 


In  pursuing  his  course  through  the  blue  soHtude. 
The  reflections  that  journey  gave  rise  to. 

And  here 
{ Because,  without  some  such  precaution,  I  fear 
You  might  fail  to  distinguish  them  each  from  the 

rest 
Of  the  world  they  belong  to;  whose  captives  are 

drest, 
As  our  convicts,  precisely  the  same,  one  and  all. 
While  the  coat  cut  for  Peter  is  pass'd  on  to  Paul ) 
I  resolve,  one  by  one.  when  I  pick  from  the  mass 
The  persons  I  want,  as  before  you  they  pass. 
To  label  them  broadly  in  plain  black  and  white 
On  the  backs  of  them.     Therefore  whilst   yet  he's 

in  sight. 
I  tirst  label  niv  hero. 


■£#■--?'] 


The  age  is  gone  o'er 
When  a  man  may  in  all  things  be  all.     We  have 

more 
Painters,  poets,  musicians,  and  artists,  no  doubt. 
Than   the  great  Cinquecento  gave  birth    to;   but 

out 
Of  a  million  of  mere  dilettanti,  when,  when 
Will  a  new  LEONARDO  arise  on  our  ken  ? 
He  is  gone  with   the  age  which  begat   hun.     Our 

own 
Is  too  vast,  and  too  complex,  for  one  man  alone 
To  embody  its  purpose,  and  hold  it  shut  close 


28 


L  UCILE. 


'% 


In  the  palm  of  his  hand.     There  were  giants  in 

those 
Irreclaimable  days  ;  but  in  these  days  of  ours, 
In  dividing  the  work,  we  distribute  the  powers. 
Yet  a  dwarf  on  a  dead  giant's  shoulders  sees  more 
Than  the  'live  giant's  eyesight  avail'd  to  explore  ; 
And  in  life's  lengthen'd  alphabet  what  used  to  be 
To  our  sires  X  Y  Z  is  to  us  A  B  C. 
A  Vanini  is  roasted  alive  for  his  pains, 
But  a  Bacon  comes  after  and  picks  up  his  brains. 
A  Bruno  is  angrily  seized  by  the  throttle 
And  hunted  about  by  thy  ghost,  Aristotle, 
Till  a  More  or  Lavater  step  into  his  place : 
Then  the  world  turns  and  makes  an  admiring  gri- 
mace. 
Once  the  men  were  so  great  and  so  few,  they  ap- 
pear, 
Through  a  distant  Olympian  atmosphere. 
Like  vast  Caryatids  upholding  the  age. 
Now  the  men  are  so  many  and  small,  disengage 
One  man  from  the  million  to  mark  him,  next  mo- 
ment 
The  crowd  sweeps  him  hurriedly  out  of  vour  com- 
ment ; 
And  since  we  seek  vainly  (to  praise  in  our  songs) 
'Mid  our  fellows  the  size  which  to  heroes  belongs. 
We  take  the  whole  age  for  a  hero,  in  want 
Of  a  l)etter ;  and  still,  in  its  favor,  descant 
On  the  strength  and  the   beauty  which,  failing  to 

find 
In  any  one  man,  we  ascribe  to  mankind. 


«S^l> 


L  UCILE. 


29 


IV. 


of    those    men   who 


Alfred    Vargrave    was    one 

achieve 
So  httle,  because  of  the  much  they  conceive. 
With  irresolute  finger  he  knock'd  at  each  one 
Of  the  doorways  of  life,  and  abided  in  none. 
His  course,  by  each  star  that  would  cross  it,  was 

set, 
And  whatever  he  did  he  was  sure  to  regret. 
That  target,  discuss'd  by  the  travellers  of  old. 
Which   to  one  appear'd   argent,   to   one   appeared 

gold. 
To  him.  ever  lingering  on  Doubt's  dizzy  margent, 
Appear'd  in  one  moment  .both  golden  and  argent. 
The  man  who  seeks  one  thing  in  Hfe,  and  but  one. 
May  hope  to  achieve  it  before  life  be  done  ; 
But  he  who  seeks  all  things,  wherever  he  goes. 
Only  reaps  from  the  hopes  which  around  him  he 

sows 
A  harvest  of  barren  regrets.     And  the  worm 
That  crawls  on  in  the  dust  to  the  definite  term 
Of  its  creeping  existence,  and  sees  nothing  more 
Than  the  path  it  pursues  till  its  creeping  be  o'er. 
In  its  limited  vision,  is  happier  far 
Than   the    Half-Sage,  whose   course,  fix'd   by   no 

friendly  star. 
Is  by  each  star  distracted  in  turn,  and  who  knows 
Each  will  still  be  as  distant  wherever  he  goes. 


Both  brilliant  and  brittle,  both  bold  and  unstable 


.i^amk^ 


30 


L  L  CILE. 


Indecisive  yet  keen.  Alfred  Vargrave  seem"d  able 

To  dazzle,  but  not  to  illumine  mankind. 

A  vigorous,  various,  versatile  mind  ; 

A  character  wavering,  fitful,  uncertain, 

As  the  shadow  that  shakes  o'er  a  luminous  curtain, 

Vague,  flitting,  but  on  it  forever  impressing 

The  shape  of  some  substance  at  which  you  stand 

guessing : 
When  you  said,  "  All  is  worthless  and  weak  here,  " 

i^ehold  ! 
Into  sight  on  a  sudden  there  seem'd  to  unfold 
Great  outlines  of  strenuous  truth  in  the  man  : 
When  you  said,  "  This  is  genius."  the  outlines  grew 

wan. 
And    his  life,  though  in   all   things    so  gifted    and 

skill'd. 
Was,  al  best,  but  a  promise  which  nothing  fulfill'd. 

VI. 

In  the  budding  of  youth,  ere  wild  winds  can   de- 

Hower 
The  shut  leaves  of  man's  life,  round  the  germ  of  his 

power 
Yet  folded,  his  life  had  been  earnest.     Alas ! 
In  that  life  one  occasion,  one  moment,  there  was 
.When  this  earnestness  might,  with  the  life-sap  of 

youth. 
Lusty  fruitage  have  borne  in    his  manhood's  full 

growth  ; 
But  it  found  him  too  soon,  when  his  nature  was  still 
The  delicate  toy  of  too  pliant  a  will, 
The  boisterous  wind  of  the  world  to  resist, 


L  UCILE. 


31 


Or  the  frost  of  the  world's  wintry  wisdom. 

He  miss'd 

That  occasion,  too  rathe  in  its  advent. 

Since  then. 
He  had  made  it  a  law,  in  his  commerce  with  men. 
That  intensity  in  him,  which  only  left  sore 
The  heart  it  disturb'd,  to  repel  and  ignore. 

And  thus,  as  some  Prince  by  his  subjects  deposed. 
Whose  strength  he,  by  seeking  to  crush  it,  disclosed. 
In  resigning  the  power  he  lack'd  power  to  support. 
Turns  his  back  upon  courts,  with  a  sneer  at  the 

court, 
In  his  converse  this  man  for  self-comfort  appeal'd 
To  a  cynic  denial  of  all  he  conceal'd 
In  the  instincts  and  feelings  belied  by  his  words. 
'Words,  however,  are  things  :  and  the  man  who  ac- 
cords 
I  To  his  language  the  license  to  outrage  his  soul, 
lis  controll'd  by  the  words  he  disdains  to  control. 
And,  therefore,  he  seem'd  in  the  deeds  of  each  day, 
The  light  code  proclaim'd  on  his  lips  to  obey  ; 
And,  the  slave  of  each  whim,  follow' d  wilfully  aught 
That  perchance    fool'd   the  fancy,  or   flatter'd  the 

thought. 
Yet,  indeed,  deep  within  him,  the  spirits  of  truth. 
Vast,  vague  aspirations,  the  powers  of  his  youth. 
Lived  and  breathed,  and  made  moan— stirr'd  them- 
selves— strove  to  start 
Into   deeds— though   deposed,    in   that  Hades,  his 
heart, 


.B:'?^- 


LUCILE. 


Like  those  antique  Theogonies  ruin'd  and  hurl'd 
Under   clefts    of   the   hills,  which,  convulsing   the 

world. 
Heaved,  in  earthquake,  their  heads  the  rent  caverns 

above. 
To  trouble  at  times  in  the  light  court  of  Jove 
All  its  frivolous  gods,  with  an  undefined  awe. 
Of  wrong' d  rebel  powers  that  own'd  not  their  law. 
For  his  sake,  I  am  fain  to  believe  that,  if  born 
To   some    lowlier  rank  (from    the  world's   languid 

scorn 
Secured   by   the  world's   stern   resistance),    where 

strife. 
Strife  and  toil,  and  not  pleasure,  gave  purpose  to 

life. 
He  possibly  might  have  contrived  to  attain 
Not  eminence  only,  but  worth.     So,  again, 
Had  he  been  of  his  own  house  the  first-born,  each 

gift 
Of  a  mind  many-gifted  had  gone  to  uplift 
A  great  name  by  a  name's  greatest  uses. 

But  there 
He  stood  isolated,  opposed,  as  it  were, 
To  life's  great  realities ;  part  of  no  plan  ; 
And  if  ever  a  nobler  and  happier  man 
He  might  hope  to  become,  that  alone  could  be  when 
With  all  that  is  real  in  life  and  in  men 
What  was  real  in  him  should  have  been  reconciled  ; 
When  each  influence  now  from  experience  exiled 
Should  have  seized  on  his  being,  combined  with  his 

nature, 


J^^^ 


f^ 


rjf. 


L  UCILE. 

And  form'd,  as  by  fusion,  a  new  human  creature : 
As  when  those  airy  elements  viewless  to  sight 
(The  amalgam  of  which,  if  our  science  be  right, 
The  germ  of  this  populous  planet  doth  fold) 
Unite  in  the  glass  of  the  chemist,  behold ! 
Where   a  void    seem'd  before,    there   a   substance 

appears, 
From  the  fusion  of  forces  whence  issued  the  spheres  ! 

VII. 
But  the   permanent  cause  why  his  life    fail'd    and 

miss'd 
The  full  value  of  life  was,— where  man  should  resist 
The  world,  which  man's  genius  is  call'd  to  com- 
mand, 
He  gave  way,  less  from  lack  of  the  power  to  with- 
stand, 
Than  from  lack  of  the  resolute  will  to  retain 
Those  strongholds  of  life  which  the  world  strives  to 

gain. 
Let  this  character  go  in  the  old-fashion'd  way. 
With  the  moral  thereof  tightly  tack'd  to  it.     Say— 
"  Let  any  man  once  show  the  world  that  he  feels 
Afraid  of  its  bark,  and  't  will  fly  at  his  heels : 
Let  him  fearlessly  face  it,  't  will  leave  him  alone : 
But  "t  will  fawn  at  his  feet  if  he  flings  it  a  bone." 

VIII. 

The  moon  of  September,  now  half  at  the  full. 
Was  unfolding  from  darkness  and  dreamland  the 

lull 
Of  the  quiet  blue  air,  where  the  many-faced  hills 


( 


■J*8^ 


34 


LUCILE. 


Watch'd,  well-pleased,  their  fair  slaves,  the  light, 

foam-footed  rills. 
Dance  and  sing  down  the  steep  marble  stairs  of 

their  courts. 
And  gracefully  fashion  a  thousand  sweet  sports. 
Lord  Alfred  (by  this  on  his  journeying  far) 
Was  pensively  puffing  his  Lopez  cigar. 
And  brokenly  humming  an  old  opera  strain, 
And  thinking,  perchance,  of  those  castles  in  Spain 
Which  that  long  rocky  barrier  hid  from  his  sight ; 
When  suddenly,  out  of  the  neighboring  night, 
A  horseman  emerged  from  a  fold  of  the  hill. 
And  so  startled  his  steed,  that  was  winding  at  will 
Up  the  thin  dizzy  strip  of  a  pathway  which  led 
O'er  the  mountain — the  reins  on  its  neck,  and  its 

head 
Hanging  lazily  forward — that,  but  for  a  hand 
Light  and  ready,  vet  firm,  in  familiar  command, 
Both  rider  and  horse  might  have  been  in  a  trice 
Hurl'd  horribly  over  the  grim  precipice. 

IX. 

As  soon  as  the  moment's  alarm  had  subsided, 
And  the  oath,  with  which  nothing  can  find  unpro- 
vided 
A  thoroughbred  Englishman,  safely  explodt^d. 
Lord  Alfred  unbent  (as  Apollo  his  bow  did 
Now   and    then)  his   erectness ;  and   looking,   not 

ruder 
Than  such  inroad  would  warrant,  survey 'd  the  in- 
truder. 


n 


^''^ 


^^ 


,--;?555^:' 


•^ 


f 


L  UCILE.  35 

Whose  arrival  so  nearly  cut  short  in  his  glorj' 
My  hero,  and  finish'd  abruptly  this  story. 


The  stranger,  a  man  of  his  own  age  or  less, 

Well  mounted,  and  simple  though  rich  in  his  dress, 

Wore   his    beard  and  mustache  in  the  fashion    of 

France. 
His  face,  which  was  pale,  gather 'd  force  from  the 

glance 
Of  a  pair  of  dark,  vivid,  and  eloquent  eyes. 
With  a  gest  of  apology,  touch'd  with  surprise. 
He  lifted  his  hat,  bow'd  and  courteously  made 
Some  excuse  in  such  well-cadenced  French  as  be- 
tray'd, 
At  the  first  word  he  spoke,  the  Parisian. 

XI. 

I  swear 
I  have  wander'd  about  in  the  world  everywhere  ; 
From    many   strange   mouths    have   heard    many 

strange  tongues  ; 
Strain'd  with  many  strange  idioms  my  lips  and  my 

lungs  ; 
Walk'd  in  many  a  far  land,  regretting  my  own  ; 
In  many  a  language  groan'd  many  a  groan  ; 
And  have    often    had  reason  to  curse   those    wild 

fellows 
Who  built  the  high  house  at  which  Heaven  turn'd 

jealous, 
Making  human  audacity  stumble  and  stammer 


\ 


36 


LUCILE. 


When    seized  by  the  throat  in   the  hard    gripe   of 

Grammar. 
But  the  language  of  languages  dearest  to  me 
Is  that  in  which  once,  O  ma  toiite  cherie, 
When,  together,    we   bent  o'er  your   nosegay   for 

hours, 
You  explain'd  what  was  silently  said  by  the  flowers. 
And,  selecting  the  sweetest  of  all,  sent  a  flame 
Through  my  heart,  as,  in  laughing,  you  murmur'd 
Je  t'aiine. 

XII. 
The  Italians  have  voices  like  peacocks  ;  the  Spanish 
Smell,  I  fancy,  of  garlic  ;  the  Swedish  and  Danish 
Have   something   too    Runic,   too  rough    and    un- 
shod, in 
Their    accent    for   mouths    not     descended    from 

Odin  ; 
German  gives  me  a  cold  in  the  head,  sets  me  wheez- 
ing 
And  coughing ;  and   Russian  is  nothing  but  sneez- 
ing i 
But,  by  Belus  and  Babel !  I  never  have  heard, 
And  I  never  shall  hear  (I  well  know  it),  one  word 
Of  that  delicate  idiom  of  Paris  without 
Feeling  morally  sure,  beyond  question  or  doubt, 
By  the  wild  way  in  which   my  heart  inwardly  flut- 

ter'd. 
That  my  heart's  native  tongue  to  my  heart  had  been 

utter'd  ; 
And  whene'er  I  hear  French  spoken  as  I  approve, 
I  feel  myself  quietly  falling  in  love. 


ip' 


LUCILE. 


37 


XIII. 
Lord  Alfred,  on  hearing  the  stranger,  appeased 
By    a   something,    an    accent,  a    cadence,    which 

pleased 
His  ear  with  that   pledge  of  good  breeding  which 

tells 
At  once  of  the  world  in  whose  fellowship  dwells 
The  speaker  that  owns  it,  was  glad  to  remark 
In  the  horseman  a  man  one  might  meet  after  dark 
Without  fear. 

And  thus,  not  disagreeably  impress'd. 
As  it  seem'd,  with  each  other,  the  two  men  abreast 
Rode  on  slowly  a  moment. 

XIV. 

Stranger. 

I  see,  Sir,  you  are 
A  smoker.     Allow  me  ! 

Alfred. 

Pray  take  a  cigar. 

Stranger. 
Many  thanks  I  .  .  .     Such  cigars  are  a  luxury  here. 
Do  you  go  to  Luchon  } 

Alfred. 

Yes  ;  and  you  } 

Stranger. 

Yes.     I  fear 
Since  our  road  is  the  same,  that   our  journey  must 


38 


L  UCILE. 


Somewhat  closer  than  is  our  acquaintance.  You  see 
How  narrow  the  path  is.     I'm  tempted  to  ask 
Your  permission  to  finish  (no  difficult  task  !) 
The  cigar  you  have  given  me  (really  a  prize  I) 
In  your  company. 

Alfred. 
Charm'd,  Sir,  to  find  your  road  lies 
In  the  way  of  my  own  inclinations  !     Indeed 
■  The  dream  of  your  nation  I  find  in  this  weed. 
In  the  distant  Savannahs  a  talisman  grows 
That  makes  all  men  brothers  that  use  it  .  .  .  who 

knows.'' 
That  blaze  which  erewhile  from  the  Boith't'arf  out- 
broke, 
It  has  ended  where  wisdom  begins.  Sir, — in  smoke. 
Messieurs  Lopez  (whatever  your  publicists  write) 
Have  done  more  in  their  way  human  kind  to  unite, 
Perchance,  than  ten  Prudhons. 

Stranger. 

Yes.     Ah,  what  a  scene  I 

Alfred. 
Humph !      Nature   is    here    too  pretentious.      Her 

mitn 
Is  too  haughty.     One  likes  to  be   coax'd,  not  com- 

pell'd,  ' 
To  the  notice  such  beauty  resents  if  withheld. 
She  seems  to  be  saying  too  plainly,  "  Admire  me  !" 
And    I  answer  "  Yes,  madam,  1   do  :  but    you  tire 

me." 


s 


I 


LUCILE. 


39 


Stranger. 

That  sunset,  just  now  though  .  .  . 

Alfred. 

A  ver}'  old  trick  ! 
One  would  think   that  the  sun  by  this  time  must  be 

sick 
Of  blushing  at  what,  by  this  time,  he  must  know 
Too  well  to  be  shock'd  by — this  world. 

Stranger. 

Ah,  't  is  so 

With  us    all.     'T  is  the   sinner  that  best  knew  the 

world 
At  Twenty,  whose  lip  is,  at  sixty,  most  curl'd 
With  disdain  of  its  follies.     You  stay  at  Luchon? 

Alfred. 
A  day  or  two  only. 

Stranger. 

The  season  is  done. 

Alfred. 
Already  ? 

Stranger. 

'T  was  shorter  this  year  than  the  last. 
Folly  soon   wears  her  shoes  out.     She  dances   so 

fast. 
We  are  all  of  us  tired. 

Alfred. 

You  know  the  place  well.' 
Stranger. 
I  have  been  tnere  two  seasons. 


.] 


'F  (71) 


f 


^ 


40 


LUCILE. 
Alfred. 


Pray  who  is  the  Belle 
Of  the  Baths  at  this  moment  ? 
Stranger. 

The  same  who  has  been 
The  belle  of  all  places  in  which  she  is  seen  ; 
The  belle  of  all  Paris  last  winter;  last  spring 
The  belle  of  all  Baden. 

Alfred. 

An  uncommon  thing ! 
Stranger. 

.Sir,  an   uncommon    beauty  !  .    .    .  I  rather   should 

say, 
An  uncommon  character.     Truly,  each  day 
One  meets  women  whose  beauty  is  equal  to  hers. 
But  none  with  the  charm  of  Lucile  de  Nevers. 

Alfred. 
Madame  de  Nevers ! 

Stranger. 

Do  you  know  her  ? 

Alfred. 

I  know, 

Or,  rather,  I  knew  her — a  long  time  ago. 
I  almost  forget.  .  .  . 

SlRANGER. 

What  a  wit !  what  a  grace 
In  her  language  !  her  movements  !  what  play  in  her 

face  ! 
And  yet  what  a  sadness  she  seems  to  conceal ! 


L  UCILE. 


41 


Alfred. 
You  speak  like  a  lover. 

Stranger. 

I  speak  as  I  feel, 
But  not  like  a  lover.     What  interests  me  so 
In  Lucile,  at  the  same  time  forbids  me,  I  know. 
To  give  to  that  interest,  whate'er  the  sensation, 
The  name  we  men  give  to  an  hour's  admiration, 
A  night's  passing  passion,  an  actress's  eyes, 
A  dancing  girl's  ankles,  a  fine  lady's  sighs. 

Alfred. 
Yes,  I  quite  comprehend.     But  this   sadness— this 

shade 
Which   you   speak  of  ?  ...  it  almost  would  make 

me  afraid 
Your  gay  countrymen,  Sir,   less  adroit  must  have 

grown, 
Since  when,  as  a  stripling,  at  Paris,  I  own 
I  found  in  them  terrible  rivals,— if  yet 
They  have  all  lack'd  the  skill  to  console  this  regret 
(If  regret  be  the  word  I  should   use),  or  fulfil 
This  desire  (if  desire  be  the  word),   which   seems 

still 
To  endure  unappeased.     For  I  take  it  for  granted. 
From  all  that  you  say,  that  the  will  was  not  wanted. 

XV. 
The  stranger  replied,  not  without  irritation  : 
"  I  have  heard  that   an  Englishman— one   of  your 
nation, 


,> 


-9=^ 


/.  UCILE. 


I  i)resume — and  if  so,  I  must  beg  you,  indeed, 
To  excuse  the  contempt  which  I   .  .  . 

Alfred. 

Pray,  Sir,  proceed 
With    your   tale.     My    compatriot,    what   was    his 
crime  } 

Stranger. 
Oh,  nothing  I     His  folly  was  not  so  sublime 
As  to  merit  that  term.     If  I  blamed  him  just  now, 
It  was  not  for  the  sin,  but  the  silliness. 

Alfred. 

How  } 
Stranger. 
I  own  I  hate  Botany.     Still,   ...   I  admit. 
Although  I  myself  have  no  passion  for  it. 
And  do  not  understand,  yet  I  cannot  despise 
The  cold  man  of  science,  who  walks  with  his  eyes 
All  alert  through  a  garden  of  flowers,  and  strips 
The  lilies'  gold  tongues,  and  the  roses'  red  lips. 
With  a  ruthless  dissection  ;  since  he,  I  suppose, 
Has  some  purpose    beyond  the  mere    mischief  he 

does. 
But  the  stupid  and  mischievous  boy,  that  uproots 
The  exotics,  and  tramples  the  tender  young  shoots, 
For  a  boy's  brutal  ])astime,  and  only  because 
He    knows    no    distinction    'twixt    heartsease    and 

haws, — 
One  would  wish,   for  the  sake  of  each  nursling  so 

ni])|/d. 
To    catch    the    young   rascal    and    have    him    well 

whipp'd  ! 


^^^ 


I 


LUCILE. 


43 


Alfred. 
Some  compatriot  of  mine,  do  I  then  understand. 
With  a  cold  Northern   heart,   and  a  rude   English 

hand. 
Has  injured  your  rosebud  of  France  ? 

Stranger. 

Sir,  I  know 

But  little,  or  nothing.     Yet  some  faces  show 
The  last  act  of  a  tragedy  in  their  regard  : 
Though  the  first  scenes  be  wanting,  it  yet  is  not  hard 
To   divine,  more  or  less,  what  the  plot   may  have 

been. 
And  what  sort  of  actors  have  pass'd  o'er  the  scene. 
And  whenever  I  gaze  on  the  face  of  Lucile, 
With  its  pensive  and  passionless  languor,  I  feel 
That  some  feeling  hath  burnt  there   .  .  .  burnt  out, 

and  burnt  up 
Health  and  hope.    So  you  feel  when  you  gaze  down 

the  cup 
Of  extinguish'd  volcanoes  :  you  judge  of  the  fire 
Once  there,  by  the  ravage  you  see  ; — the  desire, 
By  the  apathy  left  in  its  wake,  and  that  sense 
Of  a  moral,  immovable,  mute  impotence. 

Alfred. 
Humph!  ...   I  see  you  have  finish'd.at  last,  your 

cigar. 
Can  I  offer  another  "i 

Stranger. 

No,  thank  you.     We  are 
Not  two  miles  from  Luchon. 


p-*^^ 


44 


Z  UCILE. 


Alfred. 

You  know  the  road  well  ? 

Stranger. 
I  have  often  been  over  it. 

XVI. 

Here  a  pause  fell 
On  their  converse.     Still  musingly  on,  side  by  side, 
In  the  moonlight,  the  two  men  continued  to  ride 
Down  the  dim  mountain  pathway.     But  each,  for 

the  rest 
Of  their  journey,  although  they  still  rode  on  abreast, 
Continued  to  follow  in  silence  the  train 
Of  the  different  feelings  that  haunted  his  brain ; 
And  each,  as  though  roused  from  a  deep  revery. 
Almost  shouted,  descending  the  mountain,  to  see 
Burst  at  once  on  the  moonlight  the  silvery  Baths, 
The  long  lime-tree  alley,  the  dark  gleaming  paths. 
With  the  lamps  twinkling  through  them — the  quaint 

wooden  roofs — 
The  little  white  houses. 

The  clatter  of  hoofs, 
And  the  music  of  wandering  bands,  up  the  walls 
Of  the  steep  hanging  hill,  at  remote  intervals 
Reach'd  them,  cross'd  by  the  sound  of  the  clacking 

of  whips  ; 
And  here  and  there,  faintly,  through  serpentine  slips 
Of  verdant  rose-gardens,  deep-shelter'd  with  screens 
Of  airy  acacias  and  dark  evergreens, 
They  could  mark  the  white  dresses,  and  catch  the 

light  songs, 


^ 


f 


^i^ 


L  UCILE. 

Of  the  lovely  Parisians  that  wander'd  in  throngs, 
Led  by  Laughter  and  Love  through  the  cold  eventide 
Down  the  dream-haunted  valley,  or  up  the  hillside. 

XVII. 
At  length,  at  the  door  of  the  inn  I'Herisson, 
( Pray  go  there,  if  ever  you  go  to  Luchon  !) 
The  two  horsemen,  well  pleased  to  have  reach'd  it, 

alighted 
And  exchanged  their  last  greetings. 

The  Frenchman  invited 
Lord  Alfred  to  dinner.     Lord  Alfred  declined. 
He  had  letters  to  write,  and  felt  tired.     So  he  dined 
In  his  own  rooms  that  night. 

With  an  unquiet  eye 
He  watch'd  his  companion  depart ;  nor   knew  why, 
Beyond  all  accountable  reason  or  measure. 
He  felt  in  his  breast  such  a  sovran  displeasure. 
"  The  fellow's  good-looking,"  he  murmur'd  at  last, 
"  And  yet  not  a  coxcomb."    Some  ghost  of  the  past 
Vex'd  him  still. 

"  If  he  love  her,"  he  thought,  "  let  him  win  her." 
Then  he  turn'd  to  the  future— and  order'd  his  din- 
ner. 

XVIII. 
O  hour  of  all  hours,  the  most  bless'd  upon  earth. 
Blessed  hour  of  our  dinners  ! 

The  land  of  his  birth  ; 
The  face  of  his  first  love  ;  the  bills  that  he  owes  ; 
The  twaddle  of  friends  and  the  venom  of  foes  ; 
The  sermon  he  heard  when  to  church  he  last  went ; 


Wk. 


5^  ^^*-^!^ 


46 


L  UCILE. 


The  money  he  borrovv'd,  the  money  he  spent ; — 
All  of  these  things  a  man,  I  believe,  may  forget. 
And  not  be  the  worse  for  forgetting  ;  but  yet 
Never,  never,  oh  never!  earth's  luckiest  sinner 
Hath  unpunish'd  forgotten  the  hour  of  his  dinner  '. 
Indigestion,  that  conscience  of  every  bad  stomach, 
Shall  relentlessly  gnaw  and  pursue  him  with  some 

ache 
Or   some   pain  ;  and  trouble,  remorseless,  his  best 

ease, 
As  the  Furies  once  troubled  the  sleep  of  Orestes. 

XIX. 
We  may  live  without  poetry,  music,  and  art ; 
We  may  live  without  conscience,  and  live  without 

heart ; 
We  may  live  without  friends  ;  we  may  live  without 

books  ; 
But  civilized  man  cannot  live  without  cooks. 
He  may  live   without    books, — what  is   knowledge 

but  grieving  ? 
He    may  live    without    hope, — what    is    hope    but 

deceiving  ? 
He  may   live   without    love, — what   is   passion  but 

pining  ! 
But  where  is  the  man  that  can  live  without  dining  } 

XX. 
Lord  Alfred  found,  waiting  his  coming,  a  note 
From  Lucile. 

"  Your  last  letter  has  reach'd  me,"  she  wrote. 
■'  This  evening,  alas  !  I  must  go  to  the  ball. 


LUCILE. 


47 


And  shall  not  be  at  home  till  too  late  for  your  call ; 
But  to-morrow,  at  any  rate,  sans  f  ante,  at  One 
You  will  find  me  at  home,  and  will  find  me  alone. 
Meanwhile,  let  me  thank  you  sincerely,  milord. 
For  the  honor  with  which  you  adhere  to  your  word. 
Yes   I  thank  you.  Lord  Alfred  !     To-morrow  then. 

"L." 

XXI. 

I  find  mvself  terribly  puzzled  to  tell 

The   feelings    with  which    Alfred    Vargrave    flung 

down 
This  note,  as  he  pour'd  out  his  wine.     I  must  own 
That  I  think  he,  himself,  could  have  hardly  explain'd 

Those  feelings  exactly. 

"Yes,  yes,"  as  he  drain'd 
The  glass  down,  he  mutter'd.  "  Jack's  right,  after  all. 
The  coquette  !" 

"  Does  milord  mean  to  go  to  the  ball  ?'" 
Ask'd  the  waiter,  who  linger'd. 

"  Perhaps.     I  don't  know., 
You  may  keep  me  a  ticket,  in  case  I  should  go." 
XXII. 

Oh,  better,  no  doubt,  is  a  dinner  of  herbs, 
When  season'd  by  love,  which  no  rancor  disturbs. 
And  sweeten 'd  by  all  that  is  sweetest  in  life. 
Than  turbot,  bisque,  ortolans,  eaten  in  strife  ! 
But  if,  out  of  humor,  and  hungry,  alone, 
A  man  should  sit  down  to  a  dinner,  each  one 
Of  the  dishes  of  which  the  cook  chooses  to  spoil 
With  a  horrible  mixture  of  garlic  and  oil. 


48 


L  UCILE. 


The  chances  are  ten  against  one,  I  must  own, 
He  gets  up  as  ill-temper'd  as  when  he  sat  down. 
And  if  any  reader  this  fact  to  dispute  is 
Disposed,  I  say  ..."  Allium  edat  ciciitis 
Noceritius  f" 

Over  the  fruit  and  the  wine 
Undisturb'd  the  wasp  settled.  The  evening  was  fine. 
Lord  Alfred  his  chair  by  the  window  had  set, 
And  languidly  lighted  his  small  cigarette. 
The  window  was  open.     The  warm  air  without 
Waved  the  flame  of  the  candles.     The  moths  were 

about. 
In  the  gloom  he  sat  gloomy. 

XXIII. 

Gay  sounds  from  below 
Floated  up  like  faint  echoes  of  joys  long  ago. 
And    night    deepen'd    apace  ;     through    the    dark 

avenues 
The  lamps  twinkled  bright ;  and  by  threes,  and  by 

twos. 
The  idlers  of  Luchon  were  strolling  at  will, 
As  Lord   Alfred   could   see  from  the   cool  window- 
sill. 
Where  his  gaze,  as  he  languidly  turn'd  it,  fell  o'er 
His  late  travelling  companion,  now  passing  before 
The  inn,  at  the  window  of  which  he  still  sat. 
In  full  toilet,— boots  varnish'd,  and  snowy  cravat, 
Gayly  smoothing  and  buttoning  a  yellow  kid  glove, 
As  he  turn'd  down  the  avenue. 

Watching  above. 


i?59Rl 


L  UCILE. 


From  his  window,  the  stranger,  who  stopp"ci   as  he 

walk'd 
To   mix  with  those  groups,  and  now  nodded,  now 

talk'd, 
To   the    young  Paris     dandies.    Lord    Alfred   dis- 

cern'd, 
By   the  way   hats  were    Ufted,  and   glances    were 

turn'd. 
That   this   unknown    acquaintance,  now  bound   for 

the  ball. 
Was  a  person  of  rank  or  of  fashion  ;  for  all 
Whom  he  bow'd  to  in  passing,  or  stopp'd  with  and 

chatter'd, 
Walk'd  on  with  a  look  which  implied  ..."  I  feel 

flatter'd  !" 

XXIV. 

His  form  was   soon  lost  in  the  distance  and  gloom. 

XXV. 
Lord  Alfred  still  sat  by  himself  in  his  room. 
He  had  finish'd,  one  after  the  other,  a  dozen 
Or  more  cigarettes.    He  had  thought  of  his  cousin  : 
He  had  thought  of  Matilda,  and  thought  of  Lucile  : 
He    had    thought   about    many  things  :  thought    a 

great  deal 
Of  himself :  of  his  past  life,  his  future,  his  present  : 
He  had  thought  of  the  moon,  neither  full  moon  nor 

crescent : 
Of  the  gay  world,  so  sad  !  life,  so  sweet  and  so  sour  ! 
He  had    thought,  too,   of   glory,   and    fortune,   and 

power  : 


Hkt 


-■Mm 


^' 


^■f- 


50 


L  UCILE. 


Thought  of  love,  and  the  country,  and  sympathy,  and 

A  poet's  asylum  in  some  distant  land  : 

Thought  of  man   in  the   abstract,   and   woman,  no 

doubt, 
In  particular ;  also  he  had  thought  much  about 
His  digestion,  his  debts,  and  his  dinner  :  and  last, 
He  thought  that  the  night  would  be  stupidly  pass'd 
If  he  thought  any  more  of  such  matters  at  all : 
So  he  rose,  and  resolved  to  set  out  for  the  ball. 

XXVI. 

1  believe,  ere  he  finish'd  his  tardy  toilet. 

That   Lord   Alfred   had  si)oird,  and   Hung  by   in  a 

pet, 
Half  a  dozen   white  neckcloths,  and   look'd  for  the 

nonce 

Twenty  times  in  the  glass,  if  he  look'd  in  it  once. 
I  believe  that  he  split  up,  in  drawing  them  on. 
Three  pairs  of  pale  lavender  gloves,  one  by  one. 
And  this  is  the  reason,  no  doubt,  that  at  last. 
When   he  reach'd  the  Casino,  although  he  walk'd 

fast. 
He  heard,  as  he  hurriedly  enter'd  the  door, 
The  church  clock  strike  twelve. 

XXVII. 

The  last  waltz  was  just  o'er. 

The  chaperons  and  dancers  were  all  in  a  flutter. 

A  crowd  block'd  the  door  :  and  a  i)uzz  and  a  mut- 
ter 

Went  about  in  tht>  room  as  a  young  man,  whose 
face 


■■'^l 


rj^ast 


L  UCILE. 


51 


Lord  Alfred  had  seen  ere  he  enter'd  that  place, 
But  a   few  hours  ago,  through    the   perfumed  and 

warm 
Flowery  porch,  with  a  lady  that  lean'd  on  his  arm 
Like  a  queen  in  a  fable  of  old  fairy  days. 
Left  the  ballroom. 

XXVIII. 
The  hubbub  of  comment  and  praise 
Reach'd  Lord  Alfred  as  just  then  he  enter'd. 

-Mafoi!" 
Said  a  Frenchman  beside  him,  ..."  That  lucky 

Luvois 
Has  obtain'd  all  the  gifts  of  the  gods  .  .  .  rank  and 

wealth, 
And    good    looks,    and    then    such    inexhaustible 

health  ! 
He  that   hath  shall  have  more  ;  and  this  truth,   I 

surmise. 
Is  the  cause  why,  to-night,  by  the  beautiful  eyes 
Of  la  charviante   Ljicile  more   distinguish'd  than 

all, 
He  so  gayly  goes  off  with  the  belle  of  the  ball." 
"  Is  it  true,"  ask'd  a  lady  aggressively  fat. 
Who,  fierce  as  a  female  Leviathan,  sat 
By  another  that  look'd  like  a  needle,  all  steel 
And  tenuity—"  Luvois  will  marry  Lucile  ?" 
The  needle  seem'd  jerk'd  by  a  virulent  twitch. 
As  though  it  were  bent  upon  driving  a  stitch 
Through  somebody's  character. 

"  Madam,"  replied, 
Interposing,  a  young  man  who  sat  by  their  side. 


-J~^TTBii^3rifc^ 


52 


Z  UCILE. 


And  was  languidly  fanning  his  face  with  his  hat, 

"  I  am  ready  to  bet  my  new  Tilbury  that, 

If  Luvois  has  proposed,  the  Comtesse  has  refused." 

The  fat  and  thin  ladies  were  highly  amused. 

"  Refused  !  .  .  .  what  !  a  young  Duke,  not  thirty, 

my  dear, 
With  at  least  half  a  million  (what  is  it  })  a  year  I'" 
"  That  may  be,"  said  the  third  ;  "  yet  I  know  some 

time  since 
Castelmar  was  refused,  though  as  rich,  and  a  Prince. 
But  Luvois,  who  was  never  before  in  his  life 
In  love  with  a  woman  who  was  not  a  wife. 
Is  now  certainly  serious." 

XXIX. 

The  music  once  more 
Recommenced. 

XXX. 
Said  Lord  Alfred,  "  This  ball  is  a  bore  I" 
And  return'd  to  the  inn,  somewhat  worse  than  be- 
fore. 

XXXI. 

There,  whilst    musing    he    lean"d   the    dark    valley 

above. 
Through  the  warm  land  were  wand 'ring  the  spirits 

of  love. 
A  soft  breeze  in  the  white  window  drapery  stirr'd  ; 
In  the  blossom'd  acacia  the  lone  cricket  chirr'd  ; 
The  scent  of  the  roses  fell  faint  o'er  the  night. 
And  the  moon  on  the  mountain  was  dreaming  in 

light. 


^'s*:,.-. 


"  A  monient  or  so 
It  hovered,  then  pass'd  into  shadow."— Page  53. 


m 


L  UCILE. 


53 


Repose,  and  yet  rapture  !  that  pensive  wild  nature 
Impregnate  witli  passion  in  each  breathing  feature  ! 
A  stone's   throw  from   thence,  through   the  large 

lime-trees  peep'd 
In  a  garden  of  roses,  a  white  chalet,  steep'd 
In  the  moonbeams.     The  windows  oped  down  to 

the  lawn  ; 
The    casements    were    open  ;    the   curtains    were 

drawn ; 
Lights  stream'd  from   the    inside  ;  and  with  them 

the  sound 
Of  music  and  song.     In  the  garden,  around 
A  table  with  fruits,  wine,  tea,  ices,  there  set. 
Half  a  dozen  young  men  and  young  women  were  met. 
Light,  laughter,  and  voices,  and  music,  all  stream'd 
Through  the  quiet-leaved  limes.     At  the  window 

there  seem'd 
For  one  moment  the  outline,  familiar  and  fair, 
Of   a  white   dress,  a  white   neck,  and   soft   dusky 

hair. 
Which    Lord    Alfred    remember'd  ...  a   moment 

or  so 
It  hover'd,  then  pass'd  into  shadow  ;  and  slow 
The  soft  notes,  from  a  tender  piano  upflung, 
Floated  forth,  and  a  voice  unforgotten  thus  sung  :— 

"  Hear  a  song  that  was  born  in  the  land  of  my  birth  ! 
The  anchors  are  lifted,  the  fair  ship  is  free. 
And  the  shout  of  the  mariners  floats  in  its  mirth 
'Twixt  the  light  in  the  sky  and  the  light  on  the 
sea. 


tv    .IS 

\  w   ii. 


.K 


54 


Z  UCTLE. 


"  And    this  ship  is  a  world.     She  is  freighted  with 
souls, 
She  is  freighted  with   merchandise  :  proudly  she 
sails 
With  the  Labor  that  stores,  and  the  Will  that  con- 
trols 
The  gold  in  the  ingots,  the  silk  in  the  bales. 

"  From  the  gardens  of  Pleasure,  where  reddens  the 
rose, 
And  the  scent  of  the  cedar  is  faint  on  the  air. 
Past  the  harbors  of  Traffic,  sublimely  she  goes. 
Man's  hopes  oer  the  world  of  the  waters  to  bear ! 

'  Where  the  cheer   from  the   harbors  of   Traffic   is 
heard. 
Where  the  gardens  of  Pleasure  fade  fast  on  the 
sight, 
O'er  the  rose,  o'er  the  cedar,  there  passes  a  bird  ; 
'T  is  the  Paradise  Bird,  never  known  to  alight. 

"  And  that  bird,  bright  and  bold  as  a  Poet's  desire. 

Roams  her  own  native  heavens,  the  realms  of  her 

birth, 

There  she  soars  like  a  seraph,  she  shines  like  a  tire, 

And  her  plumage    hath   never  been    sullied    by 

earth. 

"And  the  mariners  greet  her;  there's  song  on  each  lip, 
For  that  bird  of  good  omen,  and  joy  in  each  eye. 
And  the  ship  and  the  bird,  and  the  bird  and  the 
ship. 
Together  go  forth  over  ocean  and  sky. 


m^A' 


i 


'  "  /  <yv 


I 


L  UCILE. 


55 


"  Fast,  fast  fades   the    land  !  far  the  rose-gardens 
flee, 
And  far  fleet  the  harbors.     In  regions  unknown 
The  ship  is  alone  on  a  desert  of  sea, 
And  the  bird  in  a  desert  of  sky  is  alone. 

"  In  those  regions  unknown,  o'er  that  desert  of  air, 
Down  that    desert    of    waters— tremendous  in 
wrath — 
The  storm-wind  Euroclydon  leaps  from  his  lair. 
And  cleaves,  through  the  waves  of  the  ocean,  his 
path. 

"  And  the  bird  in  the  cloud,  and  the  ship  on    the 
wave. 
Overtaken,  are  beaten  about  by  wild  gales  ; 
And  the  mariners  all  rush  their  cargo  to  save. 
Of  the  gold  in  the  ingots,  the  silk  in  the  bales. 

"Lo!   a   wonder,    which   never    before    hath    been 
heard. 
For  it  never  before  hath  been  given  to  sight ; 
On  the  ship  hath  descended  the  Paradise  Bird, 
The  Paradise  Bird,  never  known  to  alight  ! 

"  The  bird   which  the  mariners  bless'd,  when  each 
lip 
Had  a  song  for  the  omen    that  gladden 'd  each 

eye ; 
The  bright  bird  for  shelter  hath  flown  to  the  ship 
From  the  wrath  on  the  sea  and  the  wrath  in  the 
sky. 


» JBH^iS:-"  ig?^*^- 


— li     .-«rai5s : 


56 


LUCILE. 


"  But  the  mariners  heed  not  the  bird  any  more. 
They  are  felling  the  masts — they  are  cutting  the 
sails ; 
Some  are  working,  some  weeping,  and  some  wrang- 
ling o'er 
Their  gold  in  the  ingots,  their  silk  in  the  bales. 

"  Souls  of  men  are  on  board  ;  wealth  of  man  in  the 
hold  ; 
And  the  storm-wind  Euroclydon  sweeps  to  his 
prey  ; 
And  who  heeds  the  bird .'     '  Save  the  silk  and  the 
gold  !  ■ 
And  the  bird  from  her  shelter  the  gust  sweeps 


away 


"  Poor    Paradise    Bird !    on    her   lone    flight   once 
more 
Back  again    in  the  wake    of   the    wind    she    is 
driven — 
To  be  'whelm 'd  in  the  storm,  or  above  it  to  soar. 
And,  if  rescued  from  ocean,  to  vanish  in  heaven  I 

"And  the   ship  rides  the  waters,  and  weathers   the 
gales : 
From  the  haven  she  nears  the  rejoicing  is  heard. 
All  hands  are  at  work  on  the  ingots,  the  bales, 
Save  a  child,  sitting  lonely,    who    misses — the 
Bird  !" 


I 


dm 


i^?^... 


m 


L  UCILE. 


CANTO    III. 


57 


With  stout  iron  shoes  be  my  Pegasus  shod ! 

For  my  road  is  a  rough  one :  flint,  stubble,  and 

clod, 
Blue  clay,  and  black  quagmire,  brambles  no  few, 
And  I  gallop  up-hill,  now. 

There  's  terror  that  's  true 
In  that  tale  of  a  youth  who,  one  night  at  a  revel. 
Amidst  music  and  mirth  lured  and  wiled  by   some 

devil, 
Follow'd  ever  one  mask  through  the  mad  masquer- 
ade. 
Till,  pursued  to  some  chamber  deserted  ('tis  said). 
He  unmask'd,  with  a  kiss,  the   strange  lady,  and 

stood 
Face  to  face  with  a  Thing  not  of  flesh  nor  of  blood. 
In  this  Masque  of  the  Passions,  call'd  Life,  there  's 

no  human 
Emotion,  though  mask'd,  or  in  man  or  in  woman. 
But,  when  faced  and  unmask'd,  it  will  leave  us  at 

last 
Struck  by  some  supernatural  aspect  aghast. 
For  truth  is  appalling  and  eltrich.  as  seen 
By  this  world's  artificial  lamplights,  and  w^e  screen 
From  our  sight  the  strange  vision  that  troubles  our 

life. 
Alas !  w'hy  is  Genius  forever  at  strife 


■1/1 

■1y 


58 


LUCILE. 


With  the  world,  which,  despite  the  world's  self,  it 

ennobles  ? 
Why  is  it  that  Genius  perplexes  and  troubles 
And  offends  the  effete  life  it  comes  to  renew? 
'T  is  the  terror  of  truth  !  't  is  that  Genius  is  true  ! 

II. 

Lucile  de  Nevers  (if  her  riddle  I  read) 

Was  a  woman  of  genius  :  whose  genius,  indeed. 

With  her  life  was  at  war.     Once,  but  once,  in  that 

life 
The  chance  had  been  hers  to  escape  from  this  strife 
In  herself;  finding  peace  in  the  life  of  another 
From  the  passionate  wants  she,  in  hers,  failed   to 

smother. 
But  the  chance  fell  too  soon,  when  the  crude  rest- 
less power 
Which  had  been  to  her  nature  so  fatal  a  dower. 
Only  wearied  the  man  it  yet  haunted  and  thrall'd  ; 
And  that   moment,  once   lost,  had   been   never   re- 

call'd. 
Yet   it  left  her  heart  sore :  and,  to  shelter  her  heart 
F^rom  approach,  she  then  sought,  in   that   delicate 

art 
Of  concealment,  those  thousand   adroit   strategies 
Of  feminine  wit,  which  repel  while  they  please, 
A  weapon,  at  once,  and  a  shield,  to  conceal 
And  defend  all  that  women  can  earnestly  feel. 
Thus,  striving  her  instincts  to  hide  and  repress, 
She  felt  frighten 'd  at  times  by  her  verj-  success  : 
She  pined  for  the  hill-tops,  the  clouds,  and  the  stars  : 


\ 


Ci?^^W 


jj^         ^.s- 


L  UCILE. 


59 


Golden  wires  may  annoy  us  as  much  as  steel  bars 
If  thev  keep  us  behind  prison-windows  :  impassion 'd 
Her  heart  rose  and  burst   the   light   cage  she  had 

fashion 'd 
Out  of  glittering  trifles  around  it. 

I'nknown 
'I  o  herself,  all  her  instincts,  without  hesitation, 
Embraced  the  idea  of  self-immolation. 
The  strong  spirit  in    her,  had    her  life   but    been 

blended 
With  some  man's  whose  heart  had  her  own  com- 
prehended. 
All  its  wealth  at  his  feet  would  have  lavishly  thrown. 
For  him  she  had  struggled  and  striven  alone  ; 
For  him  had  aspired  ;  in  him  had  transfused 
All  the  gladness  and  grace  of  her  nature  ;  and  used 
For  him  only  the  spells  of  its  delicate  power  : 
Like  the  ministering   fairy    that    brings    from    her 

bower 
To  some  maze  all  the  treasures,  whose  use  the  fond 

elf. 
More  enrich'd  by  her  love,  disregards  for  herself. 
But  standing  apart,  as  she  ever  had  done, 
And  her  genius,  which  needed  a  vent,  finding  none 
In  the  broad  fields  of  action  thrown  wide  to  man's 

power, 
She  unconsciously  made  it  her  bulwark  and  tower, 
And    built   in    it   her   refuge,    whence    lightly    she 

hurl'd 
Her  contempt  at   the   fashions   and    forms   of    the 

world. 


P 


6o 


LUCILE. 


And  the  permanent  cause  why  she  now  miss'd  and 

fail'd 
That  firm  hold  upon  life  she  so  keenly  assail'd, 
Was,  in  all  those  diurnal  occasions  that  place 
Say — the  world  and  the  woman   opposed  face  to 

face, 
Where  the  woman  must  yield,  she,  refusing  to  stir, 
Offended  the  world,  which  in  turn  wounded  her. 

As  before,  in  the  old-fashion'd  manner,  I  fit 
To  this  character,  also,  its  moral :  to  wit. 
Say — the  world  is  a  nettle  ;  disturb  it,  it  stings  : 
Grasp  it  firmly,  it  stings  not.    On  one  of  two  things. 
If  you  would  not  be  stung,  it  behooves  you  to  settle  : 
Avoid  it,  or  crush  it.     She  crush'd  not  the  nettle  ; 
For  she  could  not  ;  nor  would  she  avoid  it  :  she  tried 
With  the  weak  hand  of  woman  to  thrust  it  aside. 
And  it  stung  her.     A  woman  is  too   slight  a  thing 
To  trample  the  world  without  feeling  its  sting. 


y  ■ 


One  lodges  but  simply  at  Luchon  ;  yet,  thanks 

To  the  season  that  changes  forever  the  banks 

Of  the  blossoming  mountains,  and  shifts  the  light 

cloud 
O'er  the  valley,  and  hushes  or  rouses  the  loud 
Wind  that  wails  in  the  pines,  or  creeps  murmuring 

down 
The  dark  evergreen  slopes  to  the  slumbering  town, 
And  the  torrent  that  falls,  faintly  heard  from  afar, 
And   the    blue-bells   that    purple   the   dapple-gray 

scaur, 


m 


LUCILF. 


6i 


One  sees  with  each  month  of  the  many-faced  year 
A  thousand  sweet  changes  of  beauty  appear. 
The  chalet  where  dealt  the  Comtesse  de  Nevers 
Rested  half  up  the  base  of  a  mountain  of  firs, 
In  a  garden  of  roses,  reveal'd  to  the  road. 
Yet  withdrawn  from  its  noise  :    't  was   a   i)eaceful 

abode. 
And  the  walls,  and  the  roofs,  with  their  gables  like 

hoods 
Which  the  monks  wear,  were  built  of  sweet  resin- 
ous woods. 
The  sunlight  of  noon,  as  Lord  Alfred  ascended 
The  steep  garden  paths,  every  odor  had  blended 
Of  the  ardent  carnations,  and  faint  heliotropes. 
With  the  balms  floated  down  from  the  dark  wooded 

slopes  : 
A  light  breeze  at  the  windows  was  playing  about. 
And  the  white  curtains  floated,   now   in,  and  now 

out. 
The  house  was  all  hush'd  when  he  rang  at  the  door, 
Which  was  open'd  to  him  in  a  moment,  or  more. 
By  an  old  nodding  negress,  whose  sable  head  shined 
In  the  sun  like  a  cocoa-nut  polish'd  in  Ind, 
'Neath    the    snowy  foulard  which   about    it   was 

wound. 

IV. 

Lord  Alfred  sprang  forward  at  once,  with  a  bound. 
He  remember'd  the  nurse  of  Lucile,  The  old  dame. 
Whose  teeth  and  whose  eyes  used  to  beam  when  he 

came. 
With  a  boy's  eager  step,  in  the  blithe  days  of  yore. 


62 


LUCILE. 


.>r 


To    pass,  unannounced,  her  young  mistress's  door. 

The  old  woman  had  fondled  Lxicile  on  her  knee 

When  she  left,  as  an  infant,  far  over  the  sea. 

In  India,  the  tomb  of  a  mother,  unknown, 

To  pine,  a  pale  flow'ret.  in  great  Paris  town. 

.She    had    sooth'd    the  child's  sobs  on  her  breast, 

when  she  vead 
The  letter  that  told  her,  her  father  was  dead. 
An  astute,  shrewd  adventurer,  who,  like  Ulysses, 
Had  studied  men,  cities,  laws,  wars,  the  abysses 
Of  statecraft,  with  varying  fortunes,  was  he. 
He  had   wander'd   the  world  through,  by  land  and 

by  sea, 
And  knew  it  in  most  of  its  phases.     Strong  will. 
Subtle  tact,  and  soft  manners,  had  given  him  skill 
To  conciliate  Fortune,  and  courage  to  brave 
Her  displeasure.     Thrice  shipwreck'd,  and  cast  by 

the  wave 
On    his  own  tiuick  resources,  they  rarely  had  fail'd 
His  command  :  often  bafifled,  he  ever  prevail'd, 
In  his  combat  with  fate :  to-day  flatter'd  and  fed 
By  monarchs,  to-morrow  in  search  of  mere  bread. 
The  offspring  of  times  trouble-haunted,  he  came 
Of  a  family  ruin'd,  yet  noble  in  name. 
He  lost  sight  of  his  fortune,  at  twenty,  in  France  : 
And.  half  statesman,  half  soldier,  and  wholly  Free- 
lance, 
Had  wander'd  in  search  of  it,  over  the  world, 

Into  India. 

iiui  scarce  had  the  nomad  unfurld 
Mis  wandering  tent  at  Mysore,  in  the  smile 


Z  UCILE. 


63 


Of  a  Rajah  (whose  court  he  controll'd  for  a  while, 
And   whose  council    he  prompted  and  govern'd  by 

stealth 
Scarce,  indeed,  had  he  wedded  an  Indian  of  wealth, 
Who  died  giving  birth  to  this  daughter,  before 
He  was  borne  to  the  tomb  of  his  wife  at  Mysore. 
His  fortune,  which  fell  to  his  orphan,  perchance 
Had  secured  her  a  home  with  his  sister  in  France, 
A  lone  woman,  the  last  of  the  race  left.     Lucile 
Neither  felt,  nor  affected,  the  wish  to  conceal 
The  half-Eastern  blood,  which  appear'd  to  bequeath 
(Reveal'd  now  and  then,  though  but  rarely,  beneath 
That  outward  repose  that  conceal'd  it  in  her) 
A  something  half  wild  to  her  strange  character. 
The    nurse  with  the  orphan,  awhile  broken-hearted. 
At  the  door  of  a  convent  in  Paris  had  parted. 
But  later,  once  more,  with  her  mistress  she  tarried. 
When    the  girl,  by  that  grim  maiden  aunt,  had  been 

married 
To  a  dreary  old  Count,  who  had  sullenly  died, 
With  no    claim  on  her  tears— she    had  wept  as  a 

bride. 
Said  Lord  Alfred,  "  Your  mistress  expects  me." 

The  crone 
Oped    the    drawing-room  door,  and  there  left  him 

alone. 

V. 

O'er  the  soft  atmosphere  of   this  temple  of  grace 
Rested  silence  and  perfume.     No  sound  reach 'd  the 

place. 
In  the  white  curtains  waver'd  the  delicate  shade 


64 


LL'CILL. 


Of  the  heaving   acacias,  through  which  the  breeze 

play'd. 
O'er   the  smooth   wooden   floor,  pohsh'd  dark  as  a 

glass, 
Fragrant  white  Indian  matting  allow'd  you  to  pass. 
In  light  olive  baskets,  by  window  and  door. 
Some    hung   from    the   ceiling,  some   crowding  the 

floor. 
Rich  wild  flowers  pluck'd  by  Lucile  from  the  hill, 
Seem'd  the    room  with  their  passionate  presence  to 

All: 
Blue  aconite,  hid  in  white  roses,  reposed  ; 
The  deep  belladonna  its  vermeil  disclosed ; 
And  the  frail  saponaire,  and  the  tender  blue-bell, 
And  the  purple  valerian, — each  child  of  the  fell 
And  the  solitude  flourish'd,  fed  fair  from  the  source 
Of  waters  the  huntsman  scarce  heeds  in  his  course, 
Where  the  chamois  and  izard,  with  delicate  hoof. 
Pause  or  flit  through  the  jiinnacled  silence  aloof. 

VI. 

Here  you  fell,  by  the  sense  of  its  beauty  reposed, 
That    you    stood    in  a  shrine  of  sweet    thoughts. 

Half  unclosed 
In    the  light    slept  the  flowers  :  all  was  pure  and  at 

rest  ; 
All  peaceful  ;  all  modest  ;  all  seem'd  self-possess'd, 
And  aware  of  the  silence.     No  vestige  nor  trace 
Of  a  young  woman's  coquetry  troubled  the  place. 
He  stood  by  the   window.     A  cloud  pass'd  the  sun. 
A  light  breeze  uplifted  the  leaves,  one  by  one. 


jft«»rr 


-•^^■^-*-'^~~-g-- 


L  UCILE. 


65 


Just  then  Lucile  entered  the  room,  undiscern'd 

By  Lord   Alfred,  whose    face    to    the  window  was 
turn'd 

In  a  strange  revery. 

The  time  was,  when  Lucile, 

In  beholding  that  man,  could  not  help  but  rev'cal 

The  rapture,  the  fear,  which    wrench'd  out  ever}- 
nerve 

In  the  heart  of  the  girl  from  the  woman's  reserve. 

And    now — she  gazed  at  him,  calm,  smiling, — per- 
chance 

Indifferent. 

VII. 

Indifferently  turning  his  glance, 
Alfred  Vargrave  encounter'd  that  gaze  unaware. 
O'er  a  bodice    snow-white  stream'd  her  soft  dusky 

hair ; 
A  rose-bud  half  blown  in  her  hand  ;  in  her  eyes 
A  half-pensive  smile. 

A  sharp  cry  of  surprise 
Escaped    from    his    lips  :     some    unknown    agita- 
tion, 
An  invincible  trouble,  a  strange  palpitation. 
Confused  his  ingenious  and  frivolous  wit ; 
Overtook,  and  entangled,  and  paralyzed  it. 
That  wit  so  complacent  and  docile,  that  ever 
Lightly  came  at  the  call  of  the  lightest  endeavor, 
Ready  coin'd,  and  availably  current  as  gold. 
Which,  secure  of  its  value,  so  fluently  roll'd 
In  free  circulation  from  hand  on  to  hand 
For  the  usage  of  all.  at  a  moment's  command  ; 


66 


LUCTLE. 


For  once  it  rebell'd,  it  was  mute  and  unstirr'd. 
And  he  look'd  at  Lucile  without  speakintr  a  word. 


Perhaps  what  so  troubled  him  was,  that  the  face 
On  whose  features  he   gazed   had   no  more  than  a 

trace 
Of   the    face    his    rememljrance     had    imaged     for 

years. 
Yes  !    the    face    he    reincnilier'd    was     faded    with 

tears : 
Grief  had  famish'd  the  figure,  and  dimm'd  the  dark 

■     eyes. 
And    starved    the    pale    lips,    too    accjuainted   with 

sighs. 
And  that  tender,  and  gracious,  and  fond  coquctterie 
Of  a  woman  who  knows  her  least  ribbon  to  be 
Something  dear  to  the  lips  that  so  warmly  caress 
Every  sacred  detail  of  her  exquisite  dress. 
In  the  careless  toilet  of  Lucile, — then  too  sad 
To  care  aught  to  her  changeable  beauty  to  add — 
Lord  Alfred  had  never  admired  before  ! 
Alas !  poor  Lucile,  in  those  weak  days  of  yore, 
Had  neglected  herself,  never  heeding,  nor  thinking 
(While  the  blossom  and  bloom  of  her  beauty  were 

shnnking) 
That  sorrow  can  beautify  only  the  heart- 
Not  the  face — of  a  woman  ;  and  can  but  imi)art 
Its  endearment  to  one  that  has  suffer'd.      In  truth 
(iriefhath    beaut v   for   grief;   l)ut   gay   youth   loves 

gay  \()uth. 


> 
^ 

^ 


••/ 


^Jfe^ 


•^- 


/  UCILE. 


IX. 


67 


The  woman  that  now  met,  unshrinking,  his  gaze, 
Seem'd  to  bask  in  the  silent  but  sumptuous  haze 
Of  that  soft  second  summer,  more  ripe  than  the  first, 
Which  returns  when  the  bud  to   the   blossom    hath 

burst 
In  despite  of  the  stormiest  April.     Lucile 
Had  acquired  that  matchless  unconscious  appeal 
To  the  homage  which  none  but  a  churl  would  with- 
hold- 
That  caressing  and  exquisite  grace — never  bold, 
Ever  present — which  just  a  few  women  possess. 
From  a  healthful  repose,  undisturb'd  b\  the  stress 
Of  unquiet  emotions,  her  soft  cheek  had  drawn 
A  freshness  as  pure  as  the  twilight  of  dawn. 
Her  figure,  though  slight,  had  re\ived  everywhere 
The  luxurious  proportions  of  youth  ;  and  her  hair — 
Once  shorn  as  an  offering  to  passionate  love — 
Now  floated  or  rested  redundant  above 
Her  airy  pure  forehead  and  throat ;  gather'd  loose 
Under  which,  by  one  violet  knot,  the  profuse 
Milk-white  folds  of  a  cool  modest  garment  reposed, 
Rippled  faint  by  the  breast  they  half  hid,  half  dis- 
closed. 
And  her  simple  attire  thus  in  all  things  reveal'd 
The  fine  art  which  so  artfully  all  things  conceal'd. 

X. 

Lord  Alfred,  who  never  conceived  that  Lucile 
Could  have  look'd   so  enchanting,   felt  tempted  to 
kneel 


«V*^  fiii^^agiferif^f^rr.-i-^---^ 


68 


Z  UCILE. 


At    her   feet,    and    her    pardon    with    passion    im- 
plore ; 
But  the  calm  smile  that  met  him  sufficed  to  restore 
The  pride  and  the  bitterness  needed  to  meet 
The  occasion  with  dienitv  due  and  discreet. 


"  Madam," — thus    he    began     with    a    voice     reas- 
sured,— 
"You  see  that  your  latest  command  has  secured 
My  immediate  obedience — presuming  I  may 
Consider  my  freedom  restored  from  this  day.  " — 
"  I  had  thought,"  said  Lucile,  with  a  smile  gay  yet 

sad, 
"  That  your  freedom  from  me  not  a  fetter  has  had. 
Indeed  !  ...  in    my   chains    have   you   rested    till 

now  ? 
I  have  not  so  flattered  myself,  I  avow  !  " 
"  For    Heaven's  sake,    Madam,"    Lord    Alfred    re- 
plied, 
'•  Do  not  jest  I  has   the   moment   no   sadness  }"  hi- 

sigh'd. 
"  'T  is  an  ancient   tradition,"  she  answered,  "a  tale 
Often  told — a  position  too  sure  to  prevail 
In  the  end  of  all  legends  of  love.     If  we  wrote. 
When  we   first   love,   foreseeing  that  hour  yet  re- 
mote, 
Wherein  of  necessity  each  would  recall 
From  the  other  the  poor  foolish  records  of  all 
Those     emotions,    whose     pain,    when    recorded, 
seem'd  bliss. 


Mi 


i 


\ 


•VT^ 


LUCILE. 


69 


:JSt 


Should  we  write  as  we  wrote  ?     But  one  thinks  not 

of  this ! 
At  Twenty  (who  does  not  at  Twenty  ?)  we  write, 
Believing  eternal  the  frail  vows  we  plight  ; 
And  we  smile  with  a  confident  pitv,  above 
The  vulgar  results  of  all  poor  human  love  : 
For  we  deem,  with  that  vanity  common  to  youth, 
Because  what  we  feel  in  our  bosoms,  in  truth, 
Is  novel  to  us — that  't  is  novel  to  earth. 
And    will     prove    the     exception,    in    durance    and 

worth, 
To  the  great   law  to  which   all  on  earth   must  in- 
cline. 
The  error  was  noble,  the  vanity  fine  ! 
Shall  we  blame  it  because  we  survive  it  ?  ah,  no  ; 
'T  was  the   youth  of  our  youth,  my  lord,  is  it   not 
so  ?" 

XII. 

Lord  Alfred  was  mute.     He  remember'd  her  yet 
A  child — the  weak  sport  of  each  moment's  regret. 
Blindly  yielding  herself  to  the  errors  of  life, 
The  deceptions  of  youth,   and   borne   down  by  the 

strife 
And  the  tumult  of  passion  ;  the  tremulous  toy 
Of  each  transient  emotion  of  grief  or  of  joy. 
But  to  watch  her  pronounce   the  death-warrant  of 


The  illusions  of  life — lift,  unflinching,  the  pall 
From  the  bier  of  the  dead  Past — that  woman  so  fair, 
And    so    young,    yet    her    own    self-survivor ;   who 
there 


70 


L  UCILE. 


Traced  her  life's  eijitaph  with  a  finger  so  cold  ! 
'T  was   a   picture   that   pain'd   his    self-love  to   be- 
hold. 
He  himself   knew — none   better — the  things   lo  be 

said 
I'pon  subjects    like   this.     Yet  he  bow'd    down    his 

head. 
And   as   thus,  with    a    trouble  he   could    not    com- 
mand, 
He   |)aused,    trum])ling   the   letters   he   held    in    his 

hand, 
"You  know  me  enough,"  she  continued,  "or  what 
I  would  say  is,  you  yet  recollect  (do  you  not, 
Lord  Alfred  })  enough  of  my  nature,  to  know 
That  these  pledges  of  what  was  pt-rhajis  long  ago 
A  foolish  affection,  I  do  not  recall 
From  those  motives- of  prudence  which  actuate  all 
Or  most  women  when  their  love  ceases.     Indeed, 
If  vou  have  such  a  doubt,  to  dispel  it  I  need 
lUit  remind    you   that   ten   vears  these  letters  have 

rested 
lMircclaim"d    in  \()ur  hands."     A    rt-j)roach    seem'd 

suggested 
By  these  words.     To  meet  it.  Lord  Alfred  look'd  up. 
(His  gaze  had  been  fix'd  on  a  blue  Sevres  cup 
With  a  look  of  profound  connoisseurship — a  smile 
Of  singular  interest  and  care,  all  this  while.) 
He  look'd  up,  and  look'd  long  in  the  face  of  Lucile, 
To  mark  if  that  face  by  a  sign  would  reveal 
At    the    thought    of    Miss  Darcy  the   least  jealous 
l)ain. 


^ 


fr 


/.  VCILE. 


71 


-im 


He  look'd  keenly  and  long,  yet  he  look'd   there  in 

vain. 
*'  You  are  generous,  Madam,"  he  murinur"d  at  last, 
And  into  his  voice  a  light  irony  pass'd. 
He  had  look'd  for  reproaches,  and  fully  arranged 
His  forces.     But  straightway  the  enemy  changed 
The  position. 

XIII. 

"  Come  :  "  gayly  Lucile  interposed. 
With  a  smile  whose  divinely  deep  sweetness  dis- 
closed 
Some  depth  in  her  nature  he  never  had  known, 
While  she  tenderly  laid  her  light  hand  on  his   own, 
"  Do  not  think  I  abuse  the  occasion.     We  gain 
Justice,  judgment,  with   years,  or  else  years  are  in 

vain. 
From  me  not  a  single  rei)n)ach  can  you  hear. 
I  have  sinn'd  to  myself— to  the  world— nay,  I  fear 
To  you  chiefly.     The  woman  who  loves  should,  in- 
deed. 
Be    the    friend    of   the   man  that    she    loves.     She 

should  heed 
Not  her  selfish  and  often  mistaken  desires, 
But  his   interest  whose   fate    her  own   interest  in- 
spires ; 
And,  rather  than  seek  to  allure,  for  her  sake. 
His  life  down  the  turbulent,  fanciful  wake 
Of  impossible  destinies,  use  all  her  art 
That  his   place  in  the   world    find  its   place  in  her 

heart. 
I,  alas  !— I  perceived  not  this  truth  till  too  late  ; 


i'^^ 


"i^j^ 


72 


LUCTLE. 


I  tormented  your  youth,  1  have  darken'd  your  fate. 
Forgive  me  the  ill  I  have  done  for  the  sake 
Of  its  long  expiation  !  " 

XIV. 

Lord  Alfred,  awake, 
Seem'd  to  wander  from   dream  on   to   dream.     In 

that  seat 
Where  he  sat  as  a  criminal,  ready  to  meet 
His   accuser,  he    found    himself    turn'd    by    some 

change. 
As  surprising  and  all  unexpected  as  strange. 
To  the   judge   from   whose  mercy   indulgence  was 

sought. 
All  the  world's  foolish  pride  in   that   moment  was 

naught ; 
He  felt  all  his  plausible  theories  posed  ; 
And,  thrill'd  by  the  beauty  of  nature  disclosed 
In  the  pathos  of  all  he  had  witness'd,  his  head 
He  bow'd,  and  famt  words  self-reproachfully  said, 
.•\s  he  lifted  her  hand  to  his  lips.     'T  was  a  hand 
White,     delicate,     dimpled,    warm,    languid,    and 

bland. 
The  hand  of  a  woman  is  often,  in  youth, 
Somewhat  rough,  somewhat  red,  somewhat  grace- 
less, in  truth  ; 
Does  its  beauty  refine,  as  its  pulses  grow  calm, 
Or  as  Sorrow  has  cross'd  the  life-line   in  the  palm  "-' 

XV. 

The  more  that  he  look'd,  that  he  listen'd,  the  more 
He  discover'd  perfections  unnoticed  before. 


L  UCILE. 


73 


I 


Less  salient  than  once,  less  poetic,  perchance, 
This  woman  who  thus  had  survived  the  romance 
That  had  made  him  its   hero,  and  breathed  him  its 

sighs, 
Seem'd  more    charming  a  thousand    times   o'er  to 

his  eyes. 
Together  they  talk'd  of  the  years  since  when  last 
They  parted,  contrasting  the  present,  the  past. 
Yet  no  memory  marr'd  their   light  converse.     Lu- 

cile 
Questional  much,  with  the   interest   a   sister  might 

feel. 
Of    Lord  Alfred's  new  life,— of    Miss    Darcy— her 

face, 
Her  temper,  accomplishments — pausing  to  trace 
The  advantage  derived  from  a  hymen  so  fit. 
Of  herself,  she  recounted  with  humor  and  wit 
Her  journeys,  her  daily  employments,  the  lands 
She  had  seen,  and  the  books  she  had  read,  and  the 

hands 
She  had  shaken. 

In  all  that  she  said  there  appear'd 
An  amiable  irony.     Laughing,  she  rear'd 
The  temple  of  reason,  with  ever  a  touch 
Of  light  scorn  at  her  work,  reveal' d  only  so  much 
As  there  gleams,  in  the  thyrsus  that  Bacchanals  bear, 
Through   the  blooms  of  a  garland   the   point  of  a 

spear. 
But  above,  and  beneath,  and  beyond  all  of  this, 
To  that  soul,  whose  experience  had  paralyzed  bliss, 
A  benignant  indulgence,  to  all  things  resign'd, 


\t 


74 


L  UCILE. 


P 


A  justice,  a  sweetness,  a  meekness  of  mind, 
Gave  a  luminous  beauty,  as  tender  and  faint 
And  serene  as  the  halo  encircling  a  saint. 

XVI. 

Unobserved  i)v  Lord  Alfred  tlie  time  fleeted  by. 
To  each  novel  sensation  spontaneously 
He  abandon'd  himself  with  that  ardor  so  strange 
Which    belongs   to   a  mind    grown  accustom 'd    to 

change. 
He  sought,  witli  well-practised  and  delicate  art, 
Trf  surprise  from  Lucile  the  true  state  of  her  heart ; 
But  his  efforts  were  vain,  and  the  woman,  as  ever. 
More  adroit  than  the  man,  baffled  every  endeavor. 
When  he  deem'd  he  had   touch'd  on  some  chord  in 

her  being. 
At  the  touch  it  dissohed,  and  was  gone.     E\er  Hee- 

ing 
As  ever  he  near  it  advanced,  when  he  thought 
To  have  seized,  and  proceeded  to  analyze  aught 
Of  the  moral  existence,  the  absolute  soul, 
Light  as  vapor  the  phantom  escaped  his  control. 

X\ll. 

From  the  hall,  on  a  sudden,  a  sharp  ring  was  heard. 
In  the  passage  without  a  quick  footstep  there  stirr'd. 
At  the  door  knock'd    the  negress,  and  thrust  in  her 

head, 
"The  Duke  de  Luvois  had  just  enter'd."  she  said, 
'  And  insisted  " — 

"  The  Duke  I"  cried  Lucile  (as  she  spoke 
The  Duke's  ste|).  approaching,  a  light  echo  woke) 


/t^^>. 


'Jt* 


/.  UCILE. 


"  Say  I  do  not  receive  till  the  evening.  Explain, 
As  she  glanced  at  Lord  Alfred,  she  added  again, 
"  I  have  business  of  private  importance." 

There  ciiue 
O'er  Lord  Alfred  at  once,  at  the  sound  of  that  name. 
An  invincible  sense  of  vexation.     He  turn'd 
To  Lucile,  and  he  fancied  he  faintly  discern'd 
On  her  face  an  indefinite  look  of  confusion. 
On  his  mind  instantaneously  flash'd  the  conclusion 
That  his  presence  had  caused  it. 

He  said,  with  a  sneer 
Which  he  could  not  repress,  "  Let  not  ;;/<?  interfere 
With  the  claims  on  your  time,  lady  !  when  you  are  free 
From  more  pleasant  engagements,  allow  me  to  see 
And  to  wait  on  you  later."  j 

The  words  were  not  said 
Ere  he  wish'd  to  recall  them.     He  bitterly  read 
The  mistake  he  had  made  in  Lucile's  flashing  eye. 
Inclining  her  head,  as  in  haughty  reply. 
More  reproachful  perchance  than  all  utter'd  rebuke. 
She  said  merely,  resuming  her  seat,  "  Tell  the  Duke 
He  may  enter." 

And  vex'd  with  his  own  words  and  hers, 
Alfred  Vargrave  bow'd  low  to  Lucile  de  Nevers, 
Pass'd  the  casement  and  enter'd  the  garden.     Before 
His  shadow  was  Red  the  Duke  stood  at  the  door. 


XVIII. 

When  left  to  his  thoughts  in  the  garden  alone, 
Alfred  Vargarve  stood,  strange  to  himself 
dull  tone 


W^ith 


i 


■ 


76 


1^-  -A:.^r5:^ariti*siz;ae«eaH:^-'; 


L  UCILE. 


Of  importance,  through  cities  of  rose  and  carnation, 
Went  the  bee  on  his  business  from  station  to  station. 
The  minute  mirth  of  summer  was  shrill  all  around  ; 
Its  incessant  small  voices  like  stings  seem'd  to  sound 
On  his   sore  angry  sense.     He  stood  grieving  the 

hot 
Solid  sun  with  his  shadow,  nor  stirred  from  the  spot. 
The  last  look  of  Lucile  still  bewilder'd,  perplex'd, 
And  reproach'd  him.     The  Duke's  visit  goaded  and 

vex'd. 
He  had  not  yet  given  the  letters.     Again 
He  must  visit  Lucile.     He  resolved  to  remain 
Where   he  was  till   the   Duke  went.     In   short,  he 

would  stay. 
Were  it  only  to  know  when  the  Duke  went  away. 
But  just  as  he  form'd  this  resolve,  he  perceived 
Approaching  towards  him,  between  the  thick-leaved 
And  luxuriant  laurels,  Lucile  and  the  Duke. 
Thus  surprised,  his  first  thought  was  to  seek   for 

some  nook 
Whence  he  might,  unobserved,   from   the   garden 

retreat. 
They  had   not  yet   seen  him.     The  sound   of  their 

feet 
And  their  voices  had  warn'd   him   in   time.     They 

were  walking 
Towards  him.     The  Duke  (a  true  Frenchman)  was 

talking 
With  the  action  of  Talma.     He  saw  at  a  glance 
That  they  barr'd  the  sole  path  to  the  gateway.     No 

chance 


M 


% 
¥ 


'Tliey  paused,  and  sat  down  on  a  bench  in  the  shade."  — Page  77. 


.Z^m:i^^sa!at^'-9£.^ 


L  UCILE. 


77 


Of  escape  save  in  instant  concealment  !  Deep-dipp'd 
In  thick  foliage,  an  arbor  stood  near.  In  he  slipp'd. 
Saved  from  sight,  as  in   front  of  that  ambush  they 

pass'd, 
Still  conversing.     Beneath  a  laburnum  at  last 
They  paused,  and  sat  down  on  a  bench  in  the  shade. 
So  close  that  he  could  not  but  hear  what  they  said. 

XIX. 

LUCILE. 

Duke,  I  scarcely  conceive  ... 

Luvois. 

Ah,  forgive  !  .  .  .  I  desired 
So  deeply  to  see  you  to-day.     You  retired 
So  early   last   night  froin    the   ball  .   .   .  this  whole 

week 
I  have  seen  you  pale,  silent,  preoccupied  .  .  .  speak. 
Speak,  Lucile,  and  forgive  me  !  ...  I  know  that  I  am 
A  rash  fool— but  I  love  you  !     I  love  you,  Madame, 
More   than  language   can  say  !     Do  not  deem,  O 

Lucile, 
That  the  love  I  no  longer  have  strength  to  conceal 
Is  a  passing  caprice  !     It  is  strange  to  my  nature. 
It  has  made  me,  unknown  to  myself,  a  new  creature. 
I  implore  you  to  sanction  and  save  the  new  life 
Which   I  lay  at   your   feet  with  this  prayer— Be  my 

wife  ; 
Stoop,  and  raise  me  ! 

Lord  Alfred  could  scarcely  restrain 
The  sudden,  acute  pang  of  anger  and  pain 


LUCILE. 


With  which  he  had  heard  this.     As  though  to  some 

wind 
The  leaves  of  the  hush'd,  windless  laurels  behind 
The  two  thus  in  converse  were  suddenly  stirr'd. 
The  sound  half  betrayed  him.     They  started.     He 

heard 
The  low  voice  of  Lucile  ;  but  so  faint  was  its  tone 
That  her  answer  escaped  him. 

Luvois  hurried  on, 
As   though  in   remonstrance  with  what  had   been 

spoken. 
"  Nay,  I  know  it,  Lucile !    but  your  heart  was  not 

broken 
By  the  trial  in  which  all  its  fibres  were  proved. 
Love,  perchance,  you  mistrust,  yet  you  need  to  be 

loved. 
You  mistake  your  own  feelings.     I  fear  you  mistake 
What  so  ill  I  interpret,  those  feelings  which  make 
Words  like  these  vague  and  feeble.    Whatever  your 

heart 
May  have  suffer'd  of  yore,  this  can  only  impart 
A  pity  profound  to  the  love  which  I  feel. 
Hush  I  hush  I  I  know  all.     Tell  me  nothing,  Lucile." 

"  You    know    all,  Duke  ?"  she    said  ;    "  well   then, 

know  that,  in  truth, 
I  have  learn 'd  from  the  rude  lesson  taught  to  my 

youth 
From  my  own  heart  to  shelter  my  life;  to  mistrust 
The  heart  of  another.    W^e  are  what  we  must, 
.And  not  what  we  would  be.     I  know  that  one  hour 


L  UCILE. 


79 


Assures  not  another.     The  will  and  the  power 
Are  diverse." 

'•  O  madam  !  "  he  answer'd,  "  you  fence 
With  a  feeling  you  know  to  be  true  and  intense. 
'T  is  not  ;///  life,  Lucile,  that  I  plead  for  alone  : 
If  your  nature  I  know,  't  is  no  less  for  your  own. 
That  nature  will  prey  on  itself ;  it  was  made 
To  influence  others.     Consider,''  he  said, 
"That   genius    craves    power — what    scope    for   it 

here  .-' 
Gifts  less  noble  to  mc  give  command  of  that  sphere 
In  which  genius  is  power.     Such  gifts  you  despise  ? 
But  you  do  not  disdain  what  such  gifts  realize ! 
I  offer  you,  Lady,  a  name  not  unknown — 
A  fortune  which  worthless,  without  you,  is  grown — 
All  my  life  at  your  feet  I  lay  down— at  your  feet 
A  heart  which  for  you,  and  you  only,  can  beat." 


Lucile. 
That  heart,  Duke,  that  life— I  respect  both. 


The 


name 


And  position  you  offer,  and  all  that  you  claim 
In  behalf  of  their  nobler  employment,  I  feel 
To  deserve  what,  in  turn,  I  now  ask  you — 


I  ask  you  to  leave  me- 


Luvois. 
Lucile, 

Luvois. 


Lucile ! 


You  do  not  reject  } 


I^^^^C^'^^ 


8o 

LUCILE. 

LUCILE. 

I  ask 

you 

to 

leave 

me  the  time  to 
Luvois. 

reflect. 

You 

ask  me 

> 

LUCILE. 

— The  time  to  reflect. 

Luvois. 

Say — One  word  ! 
May  I  hope  ? 

The  reply  of  Lucile  was  not  heard 
By  Lord  Alfred  ;  for  just  then  she  rose,  and  moved 

on. 
The  Duke  bow'd  his  lips  o'er  her  hand,  and  was 
gone. 

XX. 

Not  a  sound  save  the  birds  in  the  bushes.     .A.nd 

when 
Alfred  Vargrave  reel'd  forth  to  the  sunlight  again, 
He  just  saw  the  white  robe  of  the  woman  recede 
As  she  enter'd  the  house. 

Scarcely  conscious  indeed 
Of  his  steps,  he  too  follow' d,  and  enter'd. 

XXI. 

He  enter'd 
Unnoticed  ;  Lucile  never  stirr'd  :  so  concentred 
kwA  wholly  absorb'd  in  her  thoughts  she  appear'd. 
Her  back  to  the  window  was  turn'd.  As  he  near'd 
The  sofa,  her  face  from  the  glass  was  reflected. 
Her  dark  eyes  were  fix'd  on  the  ground.  Pale, 
dejected. 


m 


■  Let  us  part  without  bitterness.     Here  are  your  letters." — Page  8i. 


Z  UCILE. 


8i 


And  lost  in  profound  meditation  she  seem'd. 

Softly,  silently,  over  her  droop'd  shoulders  stream'd 

The  afternoon  sunlight.     The  cry  of  alarm 

And  surprise  which  escaped  her,  as  now  on  her  ann 

Alfred  Vargrave  let  fall  a  hand  icily  cold 

And  clammy  as  death,  all  too  cruelly  told 

How  far  he  had  been  from  her  thoughts. 

XXII. 

All  his  cheek 
Was  disturb'd  with  the  effort  it  cost  him  to  speak. 
"  It  was  not  my  fault.      I  have  heard  all,"  he  said. 
"  Now  the    letters — and    farewell,    Lucile  !     When 

you  wed 
May — "  [snaps 

The  sentence  broke  short,  like  a  weapon  that 
When  the  weight  of  a  man  is  upon  it. 

"  Perhaps," 
Said  Lucile  (her  sole  answer  reveal'd  in  the  flush 
Of  quick  color  which  up  to  her  brows  seem'd  to 

rush 
In  reply  to  those  few  broken  words),  "  this  farewell 
Is  our  last,  Alfred  Vargrav^e,  in  life.  Who  can  tell  ? 
Let  us  part  without  bitterness.  Here  are  your  letters. 
Be  assured  I  retain  you  no  more  in  my  fetters  !  " — 
She  laughed,  as  she  said  this,  a  little  sad  laugh. 
And  stretched  out  her  hand  with  the  letters.      And 

half 
Wroth  to  feel  his  wrath  rise,  and  unable  to  trust 
His  own  powers  of  restraint,  in  his  bosom  he  thrust 
The  packet  she  gave,  with  a  short  angry  sigh, 
Bow'd  his  head,  and  departed  without  a  reply. 


-s^-. 


82 


Z  UCILE. 


XXIII. 

And  Lucile  was  alone.     And  the  men  of  the  world 
Were  gone  back  to  the  world.     And  the  world's 

self  was  furl'd 
Far  away  from  the  heart  of  the  woman.     Her  hand 
Droop'd.    and    from    it.  unloosed    from    their    frail 

silken  band, 
Fell  those  early  love-letters,  strewn,  scatter'd,  and 

shed 
At   her  feet — life's  lost    blossoms !     Dejected,   her 

head 
On  her  bosom  was  bow'd.    Her  gaze  vaguely  stray'd 

o'er 
Those  strewn   records  of   passionate   moments  no 

more. 
From  each  page  to  her  sight  leapt  some  worri  that 

belied 
The  composure  with  which  she  that  day  had  denied 
Every   claim  on  her  heart  to  those    poor  perish'd 

years. 
They  avenged  themselves  now,  and  she  burst  into 

tears. 


CANTO  IV. 

1. 

Letter  from  Cousin  John  to  Cou.sin  Alkred 

"  HiGOKRE,   Thursday 

"  Time  up,  you  rascal !     Come  back,  or  be  hang'd 
Matilda  grows  peevish.     Her  mother  harangued 


^^w^^^ 


LUCILE. 


83 


For  a  whole  hour  this   morning  about  you.     The 
deuce  ! 

What  on  earth  can  I  say  to  you  ? — nothing's  of  use. 

And  the  blame  of  the  whole  of  your  shocking  be- 
havior 

Falls  on  ///(•,  sir  !     Come  back, — do  you  hear? — or 
I  leave  your 

Affairs,  and  abjure  you  forever.     Come  back 

To  your  anxious  betroth'd  ;  and  perplex'd 

"  Cousin  Jack." 
II. 

Alfred    needed,   in    truth,  no  entreaties  from  John 
To  increase  his  impatience  to  fly  from  Luchon. 
All  the  place  was  now  fraught  with  sensations  of 

pain 
Which,  whilst  in  it,  he  strove  to  escape   from   in 

vain. 
A  wild  instinct  warn'd  him  to  tiy  from  a  place 
Where  he  felt  that  some  fatal  event,  swift  of  pace, 
Was  approaching  his  life.     In  despite  his  endeavor 
To  think  of  Matilda,  her  image  forever 
Was  effaced  from  his  fancy  by  that  of  Lucile. 
From  the  ground  which  he  stood  on  he  felt  himself 

reel. 
Scared,  alarm'd  by  those  feelings  to  which,  on   the 

day 
Just  before,  all  his  heart  had  so  soon  given  way. 
When  he  caught,  with  a  strange  sense  of  fear,  for 

assistance 
At  what  was,  till  then,  the  great  fact  in  existence, 
'T  was  a  phantom  he  grasp'd. 


/ 


% 


34 


LUCII.E. 


Having  sent  for  his  guide, 
He  order'd  his  horse,  and  determin'd  to  ride 
Bacl<  forthwith  to  Bigorre. 

Then,  the  guide,  who  well  knew 
Eveiy  haunt  of  those  hills,  said  the  wild  lake  of  Oo 
Lay  a  league  from  Luchon  ;  and  suggested  a  track 
By  the  lake  to  Bigorre,  which,  transversing  the  hack 
Of  the  mountain,  avoided  a  circuit  between 
Two  long  valleys  ;  and  thinking,  "  Perchance  change 

of  scene 
May  create  change   of  thought,"   Alfred   \'argrave 

agreed. 
Mounted  horse,  and   set   forth  to   Bigorre    at    full 

speed. 

IV. 

His  guide  rode  beside  him. 

The  king  of  the  guides  ! 
The  gallant  Bernard  !  ever  boldly  he  rides, 
Ever  gayly  he  sings  !     For  to  him,  from  of  old. 
The  hills  have  confided  their  secrets,  and  told 
Where  the  white  partridge  lies,  and  the  cock  o'  the 

woods ; 
Where  the  izard  Hits  fine  through  the  cold  solitudes  ; 
Where  the  bear  lurks  perdu  ;   and  the  lynx  on   his 

prey 
At  nightfall  descends,  when  the  mountains  are  gray  ; 
Wiiere  the  sassafras  blooms,  and  the  blue-bell    is 

born, 
And  ilu-  wild  rhododendron  first  reddens  at  morn  ; 
Where  tlie  source  of  the  waters  is  fine  as  a  thread; 


L  UCILE. 


85 


How  the  storm  on  the  wild  Maladetta  is  spread  ; 
Where  the  thunder  is  hoarded,  the  snows  lie  asleep. 
Whence  the  torrents  are  fed,  and  the  cataracts  leap  ; 
And,  familiarly  known  in  the  hamlets,  the  vales 
Ha\'e  whisper'd  to  him  all  their  thousand  love-tales  ; 
He  has  laugh'd  with  the  girls,  he   has    leap'd   with 

the  boys ; 
K\er  blithe,  ever  bold,  ever  boon,  he  enjoys 
An  existence  untroubled  by  envy  or  strife, 
While  he  feeds  on  the  dews  and  the  juices   of  life. 
And  so  lightly  he  sings,  and  so  gayly  he  rides, 
For  Bernard   le    Sautkur   is   the  king   of   all 

guides  ! 

V. 
But  Bernard  found,  that  day,  neither  song  nor  love- 
tale. 
Nor  adventure,  nor  laughter,  nor  legend  avail 
To  arouse  from  his  deep  and  profound  revery 
Him  that  silent  beside  him  rode  fast  as  could  be. 


Ascending  the  mountain  they  slacken'd  their  pace, 

And  the  marvellous  prospect  each  moment  changed 
face. 

The  breezy  and  pure  inspirations  of  morn 

Breathed  about  them.  The  scarp'd  ravaged  moun- 
tains, all  worn 

By  the  torrents,  whose  course  they  watch'd  faintly 
meander, 

Were  alive  with  the  diamonded  shy  salamander. 

They  paused  o'er  the  bosom  of  purple  abysses. 


86 


L  UCILE. 


% 


And  wound  through  a  region  of  green  wildernesses  ; 
The  waters  went  wirbling  above  and  around. 
The  forests  hung  heap'd  in  their  shadows  profound. 
Here  the  Larboust,   and  there  Aventin,  Castellon, 
Which  the  Demon  of  Tempest,  descending  upon. 
Had  wasted  with  fire,  and  the  peaceful  Cazeaux 
They  mark'd  ;  and  far  down  in  the  sunshine  below. 
Half  dipp'd  in  a  valley  of  airiest  blue, 
The  white  happy  homes  of  the  village  of  Oo, 
Where  the  age  is  yet  golden. 

And  high  overhead 
The  wrecks  of  the  combat  of    Titans  were  spread. 
Red  granite  and  quartz,  in  the  alchemic  sun. 
Fused  their  splendors  of  crimson  and  crystal  in  one  ; 
And  deep  in  the  moss  gleam 'd  the  delicate  shells. 
And  the  dew  linger'd  fresh  in  the  heavy  harebells  ; 
The  large  violet  burn'd  ;  the  campanula  blue  ; 
And    Autumn's    own     flower,    the    saffron,    peer'd 

through 
The  red-berried  brambles  and  thick  sassafras  ; 
And  fragrant  with  th)me  was  the  delicate  grass, 
And  high  up,  and  higher,  and  highest  of  all, 
The  secular  phantom  of  snow  ' 

O  er  the  wall 
Of  a  gray  sunless  glen  gaj^ng  drowsy  l)elow, 
That  aerial  spectre,  reveal'd  in  the  glow 
Of  the  great  golden  dawn,  hoxt-rs  faint  on   the  eye, 
And  appears  to  grow  in,  and  grow  out  of,  the  sky 
And  plays  with  the  fancy,  and  baffles  the  sight. 
Only  reach'd  by  the  vast  rosy  ripple  of   light. 
And  the  cool  star  of  eve,  the  Imperial  Thing, 


'//•<^; 


/T^^T 


/'sS.-Ji-.l 


L  UCILE.  87 

Half  unreal,  like  some  mythological  king 

That  dominates  all  in  a  fable  of  old. 

Takes  command  of  a  valley  as  fair  to  behold 

As  aught  in  old  fables  ;  and,  seen  or  unseen. 

Dwells  aloof  over  all,  in  the  vast  and  serene 

Sacred  sky,  where  the  footsteps  of  spirits  are  furl'd 

'Mid   the  clouds   beyond  which  spreads  the  infinite 

world 
Of  man's  last  aspirations,  unfathom'd,  untrod. 
Save  by  Even  and  Morn,  and  the  angels  of  God. 

VII. 
Meanwhile,  as  they  journey 'd.  that  serpentine  road. 
Now  abruptly  reversed,  unexpectedly  show'd 
A  gay  cavalcade  some  few  feet  in  advance. 
Alfred  Vargrave's  heart  beat ;  for  he  saw  at  a  glance 
The  slight  form  of  Lucile  in  the  midst.     His  next 

look 
Show'd  him,  joyously  ambling  beside  her,  the  Duke. 
The  rest  of  the  troop  which  had  thus  caught  his  ken 
He    knew  not,  nor  noticed  them  (women  and  men). 
They  were   laughing   and    talking  together.     Soon 

after 
His  sudden  appearance  suspended  their  laughter. 

VIII. 

"  You    here  !  .  .  .   1  imagined  you  far  on  your  way 
To  Bigorre  !'"  .  .   .  said  Lucile.     '•  What  has  caused 

you  to  stay  ?" 
"  1  am  on  my  way  to  Bigorre,"  he  replied, 
"But,  since  wi'wav  would  seem  to  h^ yours,  let  me 

ride 


r 


88  L  UCILE. 

For    one    moment   't)esicle  you."     And  then,  with  a 

stoop, 
At  her  ear,  .  .  .  "and  forgive  me  !" 

IX. 

By  this  time  the  troop 

Had  regather'd  its  numbers. 

Lucile  was  as  pale 

As  the  cloud  'neath  their  feet,  on  its  way  to  the  vale. 
The  Uuke  had  observed  it,  nor  quitted  her  side, 
For  even  one  moment,  the  whole  of  the  ride. 
Alfred  smiled,  as  he  thought,  "  he  is  jealous  of  her  !" 
And  the  thought  of  this  jealousy  added  a  spur 
To  his  firm  resolution  and  effort  to  please. 
He  talk'd  much  ;  was  witty,  and  quite  at  his  ease. 

X. 
After  noontide,  the  clouds,  which  had  traversed  the 

east 
Half   the   day.  gather'd    closer,  and    rose    and    in- 
creased. 
The  air  changed  and  chill'd.     As  though  out  of  the 

ground. 
There  ran  up  the  trees  a  confused  hissing  sound. 
And      the    wind    rose.     The    guides    sniff'd.    like 

chamois  the  air, 
And  look'd  at  each  other,  and  halu-d.  and   there 
Unbuckled  the  cloaks  from  the  saddles.     The  white 
Aspens  rustled,  and  turn'd   up  their  frail  leaves  in 

fright. 
All  announced  the  approach  of  the  tempest. 

Erelong 
Thick  darkness  descended  the  mountains  .unong ; 


L  UCILE. 


89 


And  a  vivid,  vindictive,  and  serpentine  flash 
Gored  the  darkness,  and  shore  it  across  with  a  gash. 
The  rain  fell  in  large  heavy  drops.     And  anon 
Broke  the  thunder. 

The  horses  took  fright,  every  one. 
The  Duke's  in  a  moment    was  far  out  of  sight. 
The  guides   whoop'd.     The   band    was  obliged  to 

alight  ; 
And,  dispersed  up    the    perilous    pathway,    vvalk'd 

blind 
To  the   darkness  before  from  the  darkness   behind. 


And  the  Storm  is  abroad  in  the  mountams  ! 

He  fills 
The  crouch'd  hollows  and  all  the  oracular  hills 
With  dread  voices  of   power.     .A.  roused  million  or 

more 
Of  wild  echoes  reluctantly  rise  from  their  hoar 
Immemorial  ambush,  and  roll  in  the  wake 
Of  the  cloud,  whose  reflection  leaves  vivid  the  lake. 
And    the  wind,   that   wild   robber,  for  plunder  de- 
scends 
From    invisible   lands,   o'er  those   black    mountain 

ends  ; 
He  howls  as  he  hounds  down  his  prey  ;  and  his  lash 
Tears  the  hair  of  the  timorous  wan  mountain-ash. 
That  clings   to  the  rocks,   with    her  garments   all 

torn. 
Like  a   woman  in    fear  ;  then  he  blows    his  hoarse 
horn. 


go 


L  UCIl.E. 


And   is  off,    the  tierce     guide    of    destruction   and 

terror. 
Up  the  desolate  heights,  'mid  an  intricate  error 
Of  mountain  and  mist. 

XII. 

There  is  war  in  the  skies ! 
Lo  !  the  black-winged  legions  of  temjjest  arise 
O'er  those  sharp  splinter'd   rocks  that  are  gleaming 

below 
In  the  soft  light,  so  fair  and  so  fatal,  as  though 
Some  seraph    byrn'd  through  them,  the  thunder- 
bolt searching 
Which    the    black  cloud  unbosom'd  just  now.     Lo  ! 

the  lurching 
And  shivering  pine-trees,    like  phantoms,  that  seem 
To  waver  above,  in    the  dark  ;  and  yon  stream. 
How  it  hurries  and  roars,  on  its  way  to   the  white 
And  paralyzed  lake  there,  apjiall'd  at  the  sight 
Of  the  things  seen  in  heaven  I 

XIII. 
Through  the  darkness  and  awe 
That  had   gather'd   around  liim,  Lord   Alfred  now 

saw, 
Reveal'd  in  the  fierce  and  evanishing  glare 
Of  the  lightning  that  momently  pulsed  through  the 

air, 
A  woman  alone  on  a  shelf  of  the  hill, 
With  her   cheek  coldly  propped  on  her  hand, — and 

as  still 
As  the  rock  that  she  sat  on,  whicii  beetled  ai)ove 


L  UCILB. 


91 


The  black  lake  beneath  her. 

All  terror,  all  love 

Added    speed  to    the  instinct  with  which  he  rush'd 

on. 
For   one  moment  the  blue  lightninj;    swathed    the 

whole  stone 
In  its  lurid  embrace  :  like  the   sleek  dazzling  snake 
That  encircles  a  sorceress,  charm "d  for  her  sake 
And  lull'd  by  her  loveliness  ;  fawning",  it  play'd 
And    caressingly   twined    round  the    feet  and    the 

head 
Of  the   woman  who  sat  there,  undaunted  and  calm 
As  the  soul  of  that  solitude,  listing  the  psalm 
Of  the  plangent  and  laboring  tempest  roll  slow 
From  the  caldron  of  midnight  and  vapor  below. 
Next  moment  from  bastion  to  bastion,  all  round, 
Of  the  siege-circled    mountains,  there  tumbled   the 

.sound 
Of  the  battering  thunder's  indefinite  peal. 
And  Lord  Alfred  had  sprung  to  the  feet  of  Lucile. 

XIV. 
She  started.  Once  more,  with  its  flickering  wand, 
The  lightning  approach'd  her.  In  terror,  her  hand 
Alfred  \'argrave  had  seized  within  his  ;  and  he  felt 
The  light  fingers  that  coldly  and  lingeringly  dwelt 
In  the  grasp  of  his  own,  tremble  faintly. 

" See  I  see! 
Where  the    whirlwind  hath  stricken  and  strangled 

yon   tree  I" 
She  exclaim'd,   ..."  like  the   passion    that   brings 
on  its  breath 


"T~~ftar'""'''  i" 


92 


L  UCILE. 


To  the  being  it  embraces,  destruction  and  death  ! 
Alfred  Vargrave,  the  lightning  is  round  you  !" 

"  Lucile ! 
I  hear — I  see — naught  but  yourself.     I  can  feel 
Nothing  here   but  your  presence.     My  pride  fights 

in  \ain 
With  the  truth  that  leaps  from  me.     We  two  meet 

again 
'Neath  yon  terrible  heaven  that  is  watching  above 
To  avenge  if  I  lie  when  I  swear  that  I  love, — 
And  beneath  yonder  terrible  heaven,  at  your  feet, 
I  humble  my  head  and  mv  heart.     I  entreat 
Your  pardon,  Lucile,  for  the  past — I  implore 
For  the  future  your  mercy — implore  it  with  more 
Of    passion    than    prayer    e\er    breathed.     By   the 

power 
Which  invisibly  touches  us  both  in  this  hour. 
By  the  rights  I  have  o'er  you,  Lucile,  I  demand  "  — 
"  The  rights  !".  .  .  said  Lucile,  and  drew  from  him 

her  hand. 
"  Yes,    the  rights  I  for  what  greater  to  man  ma\  be- 
long 
Than  the  right  to  repair  in  the  future  the  wrong 
To    the   past  ?  and    the   wrong  I  have  done  you,  of 

yore. 
Hath  bequeath  (1  to  me  all  the  sad  right  to  restore. 
To  retrieve,  to  aiiiLiul  .'    1,  who  injured  your  life. 
Urge  the  right  to  repair  it.  Lucile  !    Be  my  wife, 
My  guide,  my  good  angel,  my  all  u]wn  earth. 
And  accept,  for  the  sake  of  what  yet  may  give  worth 
To  my  life,  its  contrition  !" 


L  UC/LE. 


93 


He  paused,  for  there  came 
O'er  the  cheek  nf  Lucile  a  swift  flush  like  the  flame 
That   illumined  at  moments  the  darkness  o'erhead. 
With  a  voice  faint  and  marr'd  by  emotion,  she  said. 
'■  And  your  pledge  to  another?" 
XVI. 
"  Hush,  hush  !"  he  exclaim'd, 
"  My  honor  will  live  where  my  love  lives,  unshamed. 
'T  were  poor  honor  indeed,  to  another  to  give 
That  life  of  which  v^z^  keep  the  heart.     Could  1  live 
In  the  light  of  those  young  eyes,  suppressing  a  lie? 
Alas,  no  !  your  hand  holds  my  whole  destiny. 
I  can  never  recall  what  my  lips  have  avow'd  ; 
In  your  love  lies  whatever  can  render  me  ]iroud. 
For  the  great  crime  of  all  my  existence  hath  been 
To    have    known    you   in  vain.     And  the  duty  best 

seen, 
And  most  hallow'd — the  duty  most  sacred  and  sweet 
Is  that  which  hath  led  me,  Lucile,  to  your  feet. 
O  speak  !  and  restore  me  the  blessing  I  lost 
When  I  lost  you—  my   pearl    of   all  pearls  beyond 

cost ! 
And  restore  to  your  own  life  its  youth,  and  restore 
The  vision,  the  rapture,  the  passion  of  yore  ! 
Ere   our  brows  had  been  dimm'd  in  the  dust  of  the 

world. 
When  our  souls  their  white  wings  yet  exulting  un- 
furl'd  ! 
For  your  eyes  rest  no  more  on  the  unquiet  man. 
The  wild  star  of  whose  course  its  pale  orbit  outran. 


M:>^ 


Whom  the  formless  indefinite  future  of  youth, 
With  its  lying  allurements,  distracted.     In  truth 
I  have  wearily  wander'd  the  world,  and  I  feel 
That  the  least  of  your  lovely  regards,  O  Lucile, 
Is  worth   all    the   world  can  afford,  and    the  dream 
Which,  though  follow'd  forever,  forever  doth  seem 
As  fleeting,  and  distant,  and  dim,  as  of  yore 
When  it  brooded  in  twilight,  at  dawn,  on    the  shore 
Of  life's  untraversed  ocean  !     I  know  the  sole  path 
To  repose,  which  my  desolate  destiny  hath, 
Is  the  path  by  whose  course  to  your  feet  I  return. 
And  who  else,  O  Lucile,  will  so  truly  discern. 
And  so  deeply  revere,  all  the  passionate  strength. 
The  sublimity  in  you,  as  he  whom  at  length 
These   have  saved    from  himself,  for  the  truth  they 

reveal 
To  his  worship  ?" 

XVII. 

She  spoke  not  ;  but  Alfred  could  feel 
The  light  hand  and  arm,  that  upon  him  reposed. 
Thrill  and  tremble.     Those  dark  eyes  of  hers  were 

half  closed  ; 
l>ut,  under  their  languid  mysterious  fringe, 
A  passionate  softness  was  beaming.     One  tinge 
Of  faint  inward  fire  flush'd  transparently  through 
The  delicate,  pallid,  and  pure  olive  hue 
Of   the    cheek,  half  averted  and  droop'd.     The  rich 

bosom 
Heaved,    as    when    in    the    heart    of  a  ruffled  rose- 
blossom 
A  bee  is  imprisoned  and  struggles. 


.tidqe:^, 


■— ^    "^^■^-<^'  ..-/a*^^ 


L  UCILE. 


XVIII. 


95 


Meanwhile, 
The  sun,  in  liis  setting,  sent  up  the  last  smile 
Of  his  power,  to  baffle  the  storm.     And,  behold  ! 
O'er  the  mountains  embattled,  his  armies,  all  gold. 
Rose  and  rested  :  while  far  up  the  dim  airy  crags. 
Its  artillery  silenced,  its  banners  in  rags, 
The  rear  of  the  tempest  its  sullen  retreat 
Drew  off  slowly,  receding  in  silence,  to  meet 
The  powers    of  the  night,  which,    now  gathenng 

afar. 
Had  already  sent  forward  one  bright,  signal  star. 
The  curls  of  her  soft  and  luxuriant  hair, 
From   the    dark  riding-hat,   which   Lucile  used   to 

wear. 
Had    escaped  ;  and    Lord  Alfred  now  cover'd  with 

kisses 
The    redolent   warmth  of  those  long  falling  tresses. 
Neither   he,  nor  Lucile,  felt   the  rain,  which  not  yet 
Had    ceased   falling   around  them  ;  when,  splash"d. 

drench'd,  and  wet. 
The   Due    de    Luvois  down    the  rough   mountain 

course 
Approached  them  as  fast  as  the  road,  and  his  horse, 
Which   was  limping,  would  suffer.     The  beast  had 

just  now 
Lost  his  footing,  and  over  the  perilous  brow 
Of  the    storm-haunted  mountain    his    master  had 

thrown  ; 
But  the  Duke,  who  was  agile,  had  leap'd  to  a  stone, 
And  the  horse,  being  bred  to  the  instinct  which  tills 


96 


L  UCILE. 


v^. 


The  breast  of  the  wild  mountaineer  in  these  hills, 

Had  scrambled  again  to  his  feet ;  and  now  master 

And  horse  bore  about  them  the  signs  of  disaster, 

As  they  heavily  footed  their  way  through  the  mist, 

The    horse  with    his  shoulder,    the    Duke  with  his 

wrist. 

Bruised  and  bleeding. 

XIX. 

If  ever  your  feet,  like  my  own, 

O  reader,  have  traversed  these  mountains  alone. 

Have  you  felt  your  identity  shrink  and  contract 

At  the  sound  of  the  distant  ;ind  dim  cataract. 

In  the  presence  of  nature's  immensities  ?     Say, 

Have  you    hung   o'er  the    torrent,  bedew'd  with  its 

spray. 
And,  leaving  the  rock-way,  contorted  and  roll'd. 
Like    a    huge    couchant  Typhon,  fold    heap'd  over 

fold,' 
Track'd  the   summits,   from    which  every  step  that 

you  tread 
Rolls  the  loose  stones,  with   thunder  below,  to   tlie 

bed 
Of  invisible  waters,  whose  mystical  sound 
Fills  with  awful  suggestions  the  dizzy  profound  ? 
And,  laboring  onwards,  at  last  through  a  break 
In  the  walls  of  the  world,  burst  at  once  on  the  lake  ? 
If  you  have,  this  description  I  might  have  withheld. 
You    remember    how    strangely    your    bosom    has 

swell'd 
At  the  vision  reveal'd.     On  the  overwork'd  soil 
Of  this  planet,  enjoyment  is  sharpen'd  by  toil; 


\ 


m.'^ 


Z  UCILE. 


97 


Sfi 


And  one  seems,  by  the  pain  of  ascending  the  height, 
To  have  conquer'd  a  claim  to  that  wonderful  sight. 

XX. 

Hail,  virginal  daughter  of  cold  Espingo  ! 

Hail,   Naiad,  whose   realm    is  the    cloud    and    the 

snow  ; 
For  o'er  thee  the  angels  have  whiten'd  their  wings. 
And  the  thirst  of   the  seraphs  is  quench 'd  at    thy 

springs. 
What  hand  hath,  in  heaven,  upheld  thine  expanse? 
When    the  breath    of  creation   first   fashion 'd   fair 

France, 
Did  the  Spirit  of  111,  in  his  downthrow  appalling. 
Bruise  the  world,  and  thus  hollow  thy  basin   while 

falling  ? 
Ere  the   mammoth  was  born  hath  some  monster 

unnamed 
The  base  of  thy  mountainous  pedestal  framed  ? 
And  later,  when  Power  to  Beauty  was  wed. 
Did  some  delicate  fairy  embroider  thy  bed 
With  the  fragile  valerian  and  wild  columbine  ? 


^1 


I^ut  thy  secret  thou  keepest,  and  I  will  keep  mine ; 
For  once  gazing  on  thee,  it  flash'd  on  my  soul, 
All  that  secret !     I  saw  in  a  vision  the  whole 
Vast  design  of  the  ages  ;  what  was  and  shall  be  ! 
Hands  unseen  raised  the  veil  of  a  great  mystery 
For  one  moment.     I   saw,  and  I    heard  ;  and  my 

heart 
Bore  witness  within  me  to  infinite  art, 


■*^-_j<Bll>5:* 


98 


LUCILE. 


In  infinite  power  proving  infinite  love  ; 

Caught  the  great  choral   chant,  mark'd   the  dread 

pageant  move — 
The  divine  Whence  and  Whither  of  life  !     But,   O 

daughter 
Of  Oo,  not  more  safe  in  the  deep  silent  water 
Is  thy  secret  than  mine  in  my  heart.     Even  so. 
What  I  then  saw  and  heard,  the  world  never  shall 

know. 

XXII. 
The  dimness  of  eve  o'er  the  valleys  had  closed. 
The  rain  had  ceased  falling,  the  mountains  reposed. 
The  stars  had  enkindled  in  luminous  courses 
Their  slow-sliding  lamps,  when,  remounting  their 

horses. 
The  riders  retraversed  that  mighty  serration 
Of  rock-work.     Thus  left  to  its  own  desolation. 
The  lake,  from  whose  glimmering  limits  the  last 
Transient  pomp  of  the  pageants  of  sunset  had  pass'd, 
Drew  into  its  bosom  the  darkness,  and  only 
Admitted  within  it  one  image — a  lonely 
And  tremulous  phantom  of  flickering  light 
That  follow'd  the  mystical  moon  through  the  night. 
XXIII. 

It  was  late  w-hen  o'er  Luchon  at  last  they  descended. 
To  her  chalet,  in  silence.  Lord  Alfred  attended 
Lucile.     As  they  parted  she  whisper'd  hmi  low. 
"  You  have  made  to  me,  Alfred,  an  offer  I  know 
All  the  worth  of,  believe  me.     I  cannot  reply 
Without     time    for   reflection.       Good-night  I^not 
good-by." 


--^s^^l^^^^i^ 


,f^  .^,1 


L  UCILE. 


99 


\^ 


"  Alas  !  "t  is  the  very'  same  answer  you  made 
To  the  Due  de  Luvois  but  a  day  since,"  he  said. 
"  No,  Alfred  !  the  very  same,  no,"  she  replied. 
Her  voice  shook.    "  If  you  love  me,  obey  me.    Abide 
My  answer,  to-morrow." 

XXIV. 

Alas,  Cousin  Jack  I 
You  Cassandra  in  breeches  and  boots  !   turn  your 

back 
To  the  ruins  of  Troy.     Prophet,  seek  not  for  glory 
Amongst  thine  own  people. 

1  follow  my  ston'. 


CANTO  V. 
I. 
Up  !— forth  again,  Pegasus  ! — "  Many  's  the  slip," 
Hath  the  proverb  well  said,  "  'twixt  the  cuj)  and  the 

lip  !" 
How  blest  should  we  be,  have  I  often  conceived, 
Had  we  really  achieved  what  we  nearly  achieved ! 
We  but  catch  at  the  skirts  of  the  thing  we  would  be, 
And  fall  back  on  the  lap  of  a  false  destiny. 
So  it  will  be,  so  has  been,  since  this  world  began  ! 
And  the  happiest,  noblest,  and  best  part  of  man 
Is  the  part  which  he  never  hath  fully  play'd  out : 
For  the  first  and  last  word  in  life's  volume   is- 

Doubt. 
The  face  the  most  fair  to  our  vision  allow'd 
Is  the  face  we  encounter  and  lose  m  the  crowd. 


I' 


« 


X 


loo  LUCILE. 

The  thought  that  most  thrills  our  existence  is  one 
Which,  before  we  can  frame  it  in  language,  is  gone. 

0  Horace  !  the  rustic  still  rests  by  the  river, 

But  the  river  flows  on,  and  flows  past  him  forever  I 
Who  can  sit  down,  and  say  ..."  W' hat  I  will  be, 

I  will  ••  ? 
Who  stand  up,  and  affirm   ..."  What  I  was,  I  am 

still  "  ? 
Who    is   it  that   must   not,   if  question 'd,   say  .  .  . 

"  What 

1  would  have  remain'd,  or  become,  I  am  not "  ? 
W'e  are  ever  behind,  or  beyond,  or  beside 

Our  intrinsic  existence.     Forever  at  hide 

And  seek  with  our  souls.     Not  in  Hades  alone 

Doth  Sisyphus  roll,  ever  frustrate,  the  stone. 

Do  the  Danaids  ply,  ever  vainly,  the  sieve. 

Tasks  as  futile  does  earth  to  its  denizens  give. 

Yet    there's    none  so  unhappy,  but  what   he    hath 

been 
Just  about   to    be   happy,    at  some    time,  I  ween ; 
And  none  so  beguiled  and  defrauded  by  chance. 
Hut   what   once,   in  his   life,  some   minute  circum- 
stance 
Would  have  fully  sufficed  to  secure  him  the  bliss 
Which,  missing  it  then,  he  forever  must  miss. 
And  to  most  of  us,  ere  we  go  down  to  the  grave. 
Life,  relenting,  accords  the  good  gift  we  would  have  ; 
But,   as   though  by  some  strange  imperfection    in 

fate. 
The  good  gift,  when  it  comes,  comes  a  moment  too 
late. 


";.#■ 


^JS^ 


It 


L  UCILE.  loi 

The  Future's  great  veil  our  breath  fitfully  flaps, 
And  behind  it  broods  ever  the  mighty  Perhaps. 
Yet  I  there's  many  a  shp  'twixt  the  cup  and  the  lip  ; 
But  while  o'er  the  brim  of  life's  beaker  I  dip, 
Though  the  cup  may  next  moment  be  shatter'd,  the 

wine 
Spilt,  one   deep    health    I'll  pledge,  and  that  health 

shall  be  thine, 
O  being  of  beauty  and  bliss  I  seen  and  known 
In  the  deeps  of  mv  soul,  and  possess'd  there  alone  ! 
My  days  know   thee  not  ;  and  my  lips  name  thee 

never. 
Thy  place  in  my  poor  life  is  vacant  forever. 
We  have  met :   we  have  parted.     No  more  is  re- 
corded 
In  my  annals  on  earth.     This  alone  was  afforded 
To  the  man  whom  men  know  me,  or  deem  me.  to 

be. 
But,  far  down,  in  the  depth  of  my  life's  mysten*-, 
(Like  the  siren  that  under  the  deep  ocean  dwells. 
Whom  the  wind  as  it  wails,  and  the  wave  as  it  swells. 
Cannot  stir  in  the  calm  of  her  coralline  halls, 
Mid  the  world's  adamantine  and  dim  pedestals; 
At   whose  feet   sit   the  sylphs  and  sea  fairies  ;  for 

whom 
The     almondine    glimmers,     the     soft    samphires 

bloom) — 
Thou  abidest  and  reignest  forever,  O  Queen 
Of  that  better  world  which  thou  swayest  unseen  I 
My  one  perfect  mistress  !  my  all  things  in  all  I 
Thee  by  no  vulgar  name  known  to  men  do  I  call : 


f 


% 


I02  L  UCILE. 

For  the  Seraphs  have  named  thee  to  me  in  my  sleep, 
And  that  name  is  a  secret  I  sacredly  keep. 
But,  wherever  this  nature  of  mine  is  most  .fair, 
And  its  thoughts  are  the  ])urest — belov'd,  thou  art 

there  I 
And  whatever  is  noblest  in  aught  that  I  do, 
Is  done  to  exalt  and  to  worship  thee  too. 
The  world  gave  thee  not  to  me,  no  I  and  the  world 
Cannot  take  thee  away  from  me  now.  I  have  furl'd 
The  wings  of  my  spirit  about  thy  bright  head  ; 
At  thy  feet  are  my  soul's  immortalities  spread. 
Thou    mightest  have  been  to  me  much.     Thou  art 

more. 
And  in  silence  I  worship,  in  darkness  adore. 
If  life  be  not  that  which  without  us  we  find — 
Chance,  accident,  merely — but  rather  the  mind, 
And    the  soul    which,  within    us,    surviveth    these 

things. 
If  our  real  existence  have  truly  its  springs 
Less  in  that  which  we  do    than   in   that    which    we 

feel. 
Not  in  vain  do  I  worship,  not  hopeless  I  kneel  I 
For  then,  though   I  name  thee  not  mistress  or  wife, 
Thou  art  mine — and  mine  only, — O  life  of  my  life  I 
And  though  many  's  the  sli])  'twixt  the  cup  and  the 

lip" 
Yet  while  o'er  the  brim  of  life's  beaker  I  dip, 
While  there's  life  on  the  lip,  while    there's   warmth 

in  the  wine, 
One  dee|5  health  I'll  pledge,  and  thai  health  shall  be 

thine  ! 


I 


^■^     ( 


1 


v 


I 


;-f^'*^^,.^^.^'\.^ 


L  UCILE. 


II. 


103 


This  world,  on  whose  peaceable  breast  we  repose 
Unconvulsed  by  alarm,  once  confused  in  the  throes 
Of  a  tumult  divine,  sea  and  land,  moist  and  dry. 
And  in  tiery  fusion  commix'd  earth  and  sky. 
Time   cool'd  it,  and  calm'd  it,  and  taught  it  to  go 
The  round  of  its  orbit  in  peace,  long  ago. 
The  wind  changeth  and  whirleth  continually  : 
All  the  rivers  run  down  and  run  into  the  sea  : 
The  wind  whirleth  about,  and  is  presently  still'd  : 
All  the  rivers  run  down,  yet  the  sea  is  not  fill'd : 
The  sun  goeth  forth  from  his  chambers  :  the  sun 
Ariseth,  and  lo  !  he  descendeth  anon. 
All  returns  to  its  place.     Use  and  Habit  are  powers 
Far  stronger  than  Passion,  in  this  world  of  ours. 
The  great  laws  of  life  readjust  their  infraction, 
And  to  every  emotion  appoint  a  reaction. 

III. 
Alfred  Vargrave  had  time,  after  leaving  Lucile, 
To  review  the  rash  step  he  had  taken,  and  feel 
What   the  world  \now\A\\2l\^c?\X<^"  his  erro7ieoiis 

position." 
Thought  obtruded  its  claim,  and  enforced  recogni- 
tion : 
Like  a  creditor  who,  when  the  gloss  is  worn  out 
On  the   coat  which  we  once  wore  with  pleasure,  no 

doubt. 
Sends  us    in    his    account    for    the    garment    we 

bought. 
Ev'ry    spendthrift  to  passion  is  debtor  to  thought 


E;*^ 


104 


L  UCILE. 


IV. 

He  felt  ill  at  ease  with  himself.     He  could  feel 
Little  doubt  what  the  answer  would  be  from  Lucile. 
Her  eyes,  when  they  parted— her  voice,  when  they 

met. 
Still   enraptured    his  heart,    which    they  haunted. 

And  yet. 
Though,  exulting,  he  deem'd  himself  loved,  where 

he  loved, 
Through    his  mind   a  vague   self-accusation  there 

moved. 
O'er  his  fancy,  when  fancy  was  fairest,  would  rise 
The  infantine  face  of  Matilda,  with  eyes 
So  sad,  so  reproachful,  so  cruelly  kind, 
That  his   heart  fail'd  within  him.     In  vain   did  he 

find 
A  thousand  just  reasons  for  what  he  had  done  : 
The  vision  that  troubled  him  would  not  be  gone. 
In  vain  did  he  say  to  himself,  and  with  truth, 
"  Matilda  has  beauty,  and  fortune,  and  youth  ; 
And   her  heart  is  too  young  to  have  deeply  involved 
All  its  hopes  in  the  tie  which  must  now  be  dissolved. 
'Twere  a  false  sense  of  honor  in  me  to  suppress 
The  sad  truth  which  I  owe  it  to  her  to  confess. 
And  what  reason  have  I  to  presume  this  poor  life 
Of  my  own,  with  its  languid  and  frivolous  strife. 
And  without  what  alone  might  endear  it  to  her. 
Were  a  boon  all  so  precious,  indeed,  to  confer, 
Its  withdrawal  can  wrong  her  } 

It  is  not  as  though 
I  were  bound  to  some  poor  village  maiden,  I  know. 


Z  UCILE. 


105 


Unto  whose  simple  heart  mine  were  all  upon  earth, 
Or  to  whose  simple  fortunes    my  own  could  give 

worth. 
Matilda,  in  all  the  world's  gifts,  will  not  miss 
Aught  that  I  could  procure  her.  'T  is  best  as  it  is  !  " 


M, 


In  vain  did  he  say  to  himself,  "  When  I  came 

To  this  fatal  spot,  I  had  nothing  to  blame 

Or  reproach  myself  for,  in  the  thoughts  of  my  heart. 

I  could  not  foresee  that  its  pulses  would  start 

Into  such  strange  emotion  on  seeing  once  more 

A  woman  I  left  with  indifference  before. 

I  believed,  and  with  honest  conviction  believed, 

In  my  love  for  Matilda.     I  never  conceived 

That  another  could  shake  it.     I  deem'd  I  had  done 

With  the  wild  heart  of  youth,  and  looked  hopefully  on 

To  the  soberer  manhood,  the  worthier  life, 

Which  I  sought  in  the  love  that  I  vow'd  to  my  wife. 

Poor   child  !  she   shall  learn  the  whole  truth.     She 

shall  know 
What  I  knew  not  myself  but  a  few  days  ago. 
The  world  will  console  her— her  pride  will  support— 
Her  youth  will  renew  its  emotions.     In  short, 
There  is  nothing  in  me  that  Matilda  will  miss 
When  once  we  have  parted.     'T  is  best  as  it  is !" 

VI. 

But  in  vain  did  he  reason  and  argue.     Alas  ! 
He  yet  felt  unconvinced  that  V  was  best  as  it  was. 
Out  of  reach  of  all  reason,  forever  would  rise 
That  infantine  face  of  Matilda,  with  eyes 


'7^'' 


io6 


LUCILE. 


So  sad,  so  reproachful,  so  cruelly  kind, 
That   they  harrow'd   his   heart   and  distracted  his 
mind. 

VII. 

And    then,    when  he  turned  from  these  thoughts  to 

Lucile, 
Though  his  heart  rose  enraptured,  he  could  not  but 

feel 
A  vague  sense  of  awe  of  her  nature.     Behind 
All  the  beauty  of  heart,  and  the  graces  of  mind, 
Which  he  saw  and  revered   in    her,    something  un- 
known 
And  unseen  in  that  nature  still  troubled  his  own. 
He  felt  that  Lucile  penetrated  and  prized 
Whatever  was   noblest  and  best,  though  disguised, 
In  himself ;  but  he  did  not  feel  sure  that  he  knew, 
Or  completely  possess'd,  what,  half  hidden  from  view. 
Remain 'd  lofty  and  lonely  in  her. 

Then,  her  life. 
So  untamed,  and  so  free  !  would  she  yield  as  a  wife, 
Independence,    long   claimed  as   a  wom,in  ?    Her 

name, 
So  link'd  by  the  world  with  that  spurious  fame 
Which  the  beauty  and  wit  of  a  woman  assert. 
In  some  measure,  alas  !  to  her  own  loss  and  hurt 
In  the  serious   thoughts  of  a  man  !  .  .  .  This    re- 
flection 
O'er  the  love  which  he  felt  cast  a  shade  of  dejection, 
From  which  he  forever  escaped  to  the  thought 
Doubt  could    reach  not.  ..."  I  love  her,  and  all 
else  is  naught  I" 


-!b^ 


L  UCILE, 


107 


His  hand  trembled  strangely  in  breaking  the  seal 
Of   the  letter  which  reach'd  him  at  last  from  Lucile. 
At  the  sight  of  the  verj^  first  word  that  he  read. 
That   letter  dropp'd    down   from    his  hand  like  the 

dead 
Leaf  in  autumn,  that,  falling,  leaves  naked  and  bare 
A  desolate  tree  in  a  wide  wintry  air. 
He  pass'd  his  hand  hurriedly  over  his  eyes, 
Bewilder'd,  incredulous.     Angr)^  surprise 
And  dismay,  in  one  sharp  moan,  broke  from  him. 

Anon 
He  pick'd  up  the  page,  and   read  rapidly  on. 

IX. 

Thp:  Comtesse  de   Nevers  to  Lord  Alfred 
Vargrave. 
"  No,  Alfred  1 

If  over  the  present,  when  last 
We  two  met,  rose  the  glamour  and  mist  of  the  past, 
It    hath    now  rolled    away,  and  our  two  paths  are 

plain, 
And  those  two  paths  divide  us. 

"  That  hand  which  again 
Mine    one    moment    has  clasp'd  as  the  hand  of  a 

brother, 
That  hand  and  your  honor  are  pledged  to  another ! 
Forgive,  Alfred  Vargrave,  forgive  me,  if  yet 
For   that    moment    (now  past!)  I  have    made   you 

forget 
What  was  due  to  yourself  and  that  other  one.     Yes, 


?**- 


108 


•L  UCILE. 


If 


Mine  the  fault,  and  be  mine  the  repentance  !     Not 

less, 
In  now   owning  this    fault,  Alfred,  let  me  own,  too, 
I  foresaw  not  the  sorrow  involved  in  it. 

"  True, 
That  meeting,  which  hath  been  so  fatal,  I  sought, 
I  alone  !    But  oh,  deem  not  it  was  with  the  thought 
Or  your  heart  to  regain,  or  the  past  to  rewaken. 
No  !  believe  me,  it  was  with  the  firm  and  unshaken 
Conviction,  at  least,  that  our  meeting  would  be 
Without  peril  to  yoii,  although  haply  to  me 
The  salvation  of  all  my  existence. 

"  I  own. 
When  the  rumor  first    reach'd  me,    which    lightly 

made  known 
'  i.  To  the    world    your  engagement,  my  heart  and  my 

•'^^1  mind 

Suffer'd  torture  intense.     It  was  cruel  to  find 
That  so  much  of  the  life  of  my  life,  half  unknown 
To  myself,  had  been  silently  settled  on  one 
Upon  whom  but  to   think  it  would  soon  be  a  crime. 
Then  I  said  to  myself,  '  From   the  thraldom  which 

time 
Hath   not  weaken'd    there  rests   but   one   hope   of 

escape. 
That  image  which  Fancy  seems  ever  to  shape 
From  the  solitude  left  round  the  ruins  of  yore. 
Is  a  ])hantom.     The  Being  I  loved  is  no  more. 
What  I    hear  in  the  silence,  and  see  in  the  lone 
\'oi(l  of  life,  is  the  young  hero  born  of  my  own 
Perish"d  youth  :  and  his  image,  serene  and  sublime. 


■:^--a?f.ir;-.a,^-. 


L  UCILE. 


109 


In  my  heart    rests  unconscious    of  change  and  of 

time. 
Could  I  see  it  but  once  more,  as  time  and  as  change 
Have  made  it,  a  thing  unfamiliar  and  strange. 
See,  indeed,  that   the  Being  I  loved  in  my  youth 
Is  no  more,  and  what  rests  now  is  only,  in  truth. 
The  hard  pupil  of   life  and    the  world  :  then,   oh, 

then, 
I  should  wake  from  a  dream,  and  my  life  be  again 
Reconciled  to  the  world  ;  and,  released  from  regret, 
Take  the  lot  fate  accords  to  my  choice.' 

"  So  we  met. 
But  the  danger  I  did  not  foresee  has  occurr'd: 
The  danger,  alas,  to  yourself  1    I  have  err'd. 
But  happy  for  both  that  this  error  hath  been 
Discover'd  as  soon  as  the  danger  was  seen  ! 
We  meet,  Alfred  Vargrave,  no  more.     I,  indeed. 
Shall  be  far  from  Luchon  when  this  letter  you  read. 
My  course  is  decided  ;  my  path  I  discern  : 
Doubt  is  over  ;  my  future  is  tix'd  now. 

"  Return, 
O  return  to  the   young  living  love  !     Whence,  alas  ! 
If,  one  moment,  you  wander'd,  think  only  it  was 
More  deeply  to  bur)-  the  past  love. 

"  And,  oh  ! 
Believe,  Alfred  Vargrave,  that  I,  where  I  go 
On    my    far   distant    pathway   through     life,    shall 

rejoice 
To  treasure  in  memory  all  that  your  voice 
Has  avow'd  to  me,  all  in  which  others  have  clothed 
To  my  fancy  with  beauty  and  worth  your  betrothed  ! 


rar^— -*^ 


I  lo  Z  UCILE. 

In  thf  (air  morning-  light,  in  the  orient  dew 

Of  that  voung  life,  now  yours,  can  you  fail  to  renew 

All  the  noble  and  pure  aspirations,  the  truth. 

The    freshness,    the    faith,    of    your    own     earnest 

youth  ? 
Yes  !  you  will  be  happy.     I,  too,  in  the  bliss 
I  foresee  for  you,  I  shall  be  happy.     And  this 
Proves  me  worthy  your  friendship.     And  so — let  it 

prove 
That  I  cannot — I  do  not — respond  to  your  love. 
Yes,  indeed  !  be  convinced  that  I  could  not  (no,  no, 
Never,  never!)  have  render'd  you  happy.     And  so, 
Rest  assured  that,  if   false   to    the  vows  you  have 

plighted, 
You    would    have    endured,    when    the    first    brief, 

excited 
Emotion  was  o'er,  not  alone  the  remorse 
Of  honor,  but  also  (to  render  it  worse) 
Disappointed  affection. 

"  Yes,  Alfred  ;  you  start  .•' 
P.ut    think  !  if    the    world    was    too    much  in  your 

heart. 
And  too  little  in  mine,  when  we  parted  ten  years 
Ere  this  last  fatal  meeting,  that  time  (ay,  and  tears  I) 
Have  but    deepen 'd    the    old    demarcations   which 

then 
Placed  our  natures  asunder;  and  we  two  again. 
As  we  then  were,  would  still  have  been  strangely 

at  strife. 
In  that  self-independence  which  is  to  my  life 
Its  necessity  now,  as,  it  once  was  its  pride, 


fe^ 


Jf..,-^ 


w 


LUCILE.  Ill 

Had  our  course  through  the  world  been  henceforth 

side  by  side, 
I  should  have  revolted  forever,  and  shock'd 
Vour  respect  for  the  world's  plausibilities,  inock'd. 
Without  meaning-  to  do  so,  and  outraged,  all  those 
Social  creeds  which  you  live  by. 

"  Oh  !  do  not  suppose 
That    I    blame    you.     Perhaps    it    is   you    that  are 

right. 
Best,  then,  all  as  it  is  ! 

"  Deem  these  words  life's  Good-night 
To  the  hope  of  a  moment :  no  more  !  If  there  fell 
Any  tear  on  this  page,  't  was  a  friend's. 

"  So  farewell 
To  the  past — and  to  you,  Alfred  Vargrave. 

"  LuciLE." 
X. 
So  ended  that  letter. 

The  room  seem'd  to  reel 
Round  and  round  in  the  mist  that  was   scorching 

his   eyes 
With  a  fiery  dew.     Grief,  resentment,  surprise. 
Half  choked   him  ;  each   word  he  had   read,  as  it 

smote 
Down  some  hope,  rose  and  grasp'd  like  a  hand  at 

his  throat. 
To  stifle  and  strangle  him. 

Gasping  already 
For  relief  from  himself,  with  a  footstep  unsteady. 
He    pass'd     from     his     chamber.     He     felt    both 
oppress'd 


='-vgg3s»;.««^ 


m 


112  LUCILE. 

And  excited.     The  letter  he  thrust  in  his  breast, 
And,  in  search  of  fresh  air  and  of  solitude,  pass'd 
The  long  lime-trees  of  Luchon.     His  footsteps  at 

last 
Keach'd  a  bare    narrow  heath  by  the  skirts  of    a 

wood  : 
It  w^as  sombre  and  silent,  and  suited  his  mood. 
By  a  mineral  spring,  long  unused,  now  unknown. 
Stood  a   small   ruin'd   abbev.     He    reach "d    it,   sat 

down 
On  a   fragment  of   stone,  'mid   the   wild   weed  and 

thistle. 
And  read  over  again  that  perplexing  ei)istle. 

XI. 

In    re-reading     that    letter,    there    roll'd    from    his 

mind 
The  raw  mist  of  resentment  which   first   Tiiade  him 

blind 
To  the  pathos  breath'd  through  it.     Tears  rose  in 

his  e\es, 
And  a  hope  sweet  and  strange  in   his  heart  seem'd 

to  rise. 
The  truth  which  he  saw  not  the  first  time  he  read 
That  letter,  he  now  saw — that  each  word  betray 'd 
The  love  which  the  writer  had  sought  to  conceal. 
His  love  was  received  not,  he  could  not  but  feel. 
For  one  reason  alone, — that  his  lo\e  was  not  free. 
True !  free  yet  he  was  not :  but  could  he  not  be 
Free  erelong,  free  as  air  to  revoke  that  farewell, 
And  to  sanction  his  own  hopes  ?  he  had  but  to  tell 


LUCILE. 


"3 


The  truth  to  Matilda,  and  she  were  the  first 

To  release  him  :  he  had  but  to  wait  at  the  worst. 

Matilda's  relations  would  probably  snatch 

Any  pretext,  with  pleasure,  to  break  off  a  match 

In  which  they  had  yielded,  alone  at  the  whim 

Of  their  spoil'd  child,  a  languid  approval  to  him. 

She   herself,  careless   child  !  was  her  love   for  him 

aught 
.Save  the  first  joyous  fancy  succeeding  the  thought 
She  last  gave  to  her  doll  ?  was  she  able  to  feel 
Such  a  love  as  the  love  he  divined  in  Lucile  ? 
He  would  seek  her,  obtain  his  release,  and,  oh  ! 

then. 
He  had  but  to  fly  to  Lucile,  and  again 
Claim  the  love  which   his  heart  would  be  free  to 

command. 
But  to  press  on  Lucile  any  claim  to  her  hand. 
Or  even  to  seek,  or  to  see  her,  before 
He  could  say,  "  I  am  free  !  free,  Lucile,  to  implore 
That  great  blessing  on  life  you  alone  can  confer." 
'T  were  dishonor  in  him,  'twould  be  insult  to  her. 
Thus  still  with  the  letter  outspread  on  his  knee 
He  follow'd  so  fondly  his  own  revery. 
That  he  felt  not  the  angry  regard  of  a  man 
Fix'd   upon   him  ;    he    saw    not    a    face  stern   and 

wan 
Turn'd  towards  him  ;  he  heard  not  a  footstep  that 

pass'd 
And  repass'd  the  lone  spot  where  he  stood,  till  at 

last 
A  hoarse  voice  aroused  him. 


1^ 


¥ 


114 


LUCILE. 


He  look"d  up  and  saw. 
On  the  bare  heath  before  him,  the  Due  de  Luvois. 

XII. 
With  aggressive  ironical  tones,  and  a  look 
Of  concentrated  insolent  challenge,  the  Duke 
Address'd  to  Lord  Alfred  some  sneering  allusion 
To  "the  doubtless  sublime  reveries  his  intrusion 
Had,  he    fear'd,    interrupted.        Milord    would   do 

better. 
He  fancied,  however,  to  fold  up  a  letter 
The  writing  of  which  was  too  well  known,  in  fact, 
His  remark  as  he  pass'd  to  have  failed  to  attract." 

XIII. 
It  was  obvious  to  Alfred  the  Frenchman  was  bent 
Upon     picking   a    quarrel !    and     doubtless    't  was 

meant 
From  hii)i  to  provoke  it  by  sneers  such  as  these. 
A  moment  sufficed  his  quick  instinct  to  seize 
The  position.     He  felt  that  he  could  not  expose 
His  own  name,  or  Lucile's,  or  Matilda's,  to  those 
Idle  tongues  that  would  bring  down  upon  him  the 

ban 
Of   the  world,  if   he  now  were    to    fight  with    this 

man. 
And  indeed,  when  he  look'd  in  the  Duke's  haggard 

face, 
He  was  pain'd  with  the  change  there  he  could  not 

but  trace. 
And  he  almost  felt  pity. 

He  therefore  put  liy 


"\ 


"The  Duke 
Addressed  to  Lord  AUred  some  sneering  allusion." — Page  114. 


LVCILE. 


"5 


"•K 


Each   remark   from   the    Duke  with   some  careless 

reply. 
And  coldly,  but  courteously,  waving  away 
The  ill-humor  the  Duke  seem'd  resolved  to  display. 
Rose,  and  turn'd,  with  a  stern  salutation,  aside. 

XIV. 

Then  the  Duke  put  himself  in  the  path,  made  one 

stride 
In  advance,  raised  a  hand,  fix'd  upon  him  his  eyes. 
And  said   .  .  . 

'•  Hold,  Lord  Alfred  I  Away  with  disguise  ! 
I  will  own  that  I  sought  you  a  moment  ago. 
To  fix  on  you  a  quarrel.      I  still  can  do  so 
Upon  my  excuse.     I  prefer  to  be  frank. 
I  admit  not  a  rival  in  fortune  or  rank 
To  the  hand  of  a  woman,  whatever  be  hers 
Or  her  suitor's.     I  love  the  Comtesse  de  Nevers. 
I  believed,  ere  you  cross'd  me,  and  still  have  the  right 
To  believe,  that  she  would   have  been  mine.       To 

her  sight 
You  return,  and  the  woman  is  suddenly  changed. 
You  step  in  between  us  :  her  heart  is  estranged. 
You  !   who  now  are  betrothed  to  another,  I  know  : 
You  !    whose  name  with  Lucile's  nearly  ten   years 

ago 
Was    coupled  by  ties  which  you   broke  :  you  1    the 

man 
I  reproach'd  on  the  day  our  acquaintance  began  : 
You  !   that  left  her  so  lightly, — I  cannot  believe 
That  you  love,  as  I  love,  her ;  nor  can  I  conceive 


ii6 


LUCILE. 


Vou,  indeed,  have  the  right  so  to  io\f  her. 

Milord, 
1  will  not  thus  tamely  concede,  at  your  word. 
What,  a  few  days  ago,  I  believed  to  be  mine  ! 
I  shall  yet  persevere  :  I  shall  vet  be,  in  fine, 
A  rival  you  dare  not  despise.     It  is  plain 
That  to  settle  this  contest  there  can  but  remain 
One  way — need  I  say  what  it  is  ?" 

XV. 

Not  unmoved 
With  regretful  respect  for  the  earnestness  proved 
By    the    speech    he    had    heard,    Alfreri     \'argrave 

replied 
In  words  which  he  trusted  might  yet  turn  aside 
The  quarrel  from  which  he  felt  bound  to  abstain. 
And,  with  stately  urbanity,  stro\e  to  explain 
To  the  Duke  that  he  too  (a  fair  rival  at  worst !) 
Had  not  been  accepted. 

XVI. 

"  Accepted  !    sav  first 
Are  you  free  to  have  offer'd  .'" 

Lord  Alfred  was  mute. 
XVII. 

"  Ah,  you  dare  not  rejily  !"  cried  the  Duke.     "  Why 

dispute. 
Why  palter  with  me  .'     \'ou  are  silent !  and  why  .- 
Because,  in  your  conscience,  you  cannot  deny 
"T  was  from  vanity,  wanton  and  cruel  withal, 
And  the  wish  an  ascendency  lost  to  rtwiU, 
That  you  stepp'd  in  between  nu-  and  her.    If,  milord, 


\l£k 


i 


m  >-,??=-^ 


L  UCILE. 


117 


You  be  really  sincere,  I  ask  only  one  word. 
Say  at  once  you  renounce  her.     At  once,  on  my  part, 
I  will  ask  your  forgiveness  with  all  truth  of  heart, 
And  there  can  be  no  quarrel  between  us.      Sa\  on  !" 
Lord  Alfred  grew  gall'd  and  impatient.      This  tone 
Roused  a  strong  irritation  he  could  not  repress. 
"  You  have  not  the  right,  sir,"  he  said,  "and  still  less 
The  power,  to  make  terms  and  conditions  with  me. 
I  refuse  to  reply." 

XVIII. 
As  diviners  may  see 
Fates  they  cannot  avert  in  some  figure  occult. 
He  foresaw  in  a  moment  each  evil  result 
Of  the  quarrel  now  imminent. 

There,  face  to  face, 
'Mid  the  ruins  and  tombs  of  a  long-perish'd  race. 
With,  for  witness,  the  stern  Autumn  Sky  overhead. 
And  beneath  them,  unnoticed,  the  graves,  and  the 

dead, 
Those  two  men  had  met,  as  it  were  on  the  ridge 
Of  that  perilous,  narrow,  invisible  bridge 
Dividing  the  Past  from  the  Future,  so  small 
That,  if  one  should  pass  over,  the  other  must  fall. 

XIX. 
On  the  ear,  at  that  moment,  the  sound  of  a  hoof, 
Urged  with  speed,  sharply  smote ;  and  from  under 

the  roof 
( )f  the  forest  in  view,  where  the  skirts  of  it  verged 
On    the    heath    where    they    stood,    at  full    gallo)) 

emerged 
A  horseman. 


--•^t-^^-- ^*^afc-^^=ig:^ 


I.  r  CI  I.E. 


^;.u^ 


A  ^uitk'  lie  appear'd,  by  the  sash 
Of  red  silk  round  the  waist,  and  the  long  leathera 

lash 
\\'ith    the    short    wooden   handle,  slung    crosswise 

behind 
The  short  jacket  ;  the  loose  canvas  trouser,  confined 
liy  the  long  boots  ;  the  woollen  capote  ;  and  the  rein, 
A  mere  hempen    cord  on  a  curb. 

L'p  the  i)lain 
He  wheel'd  his  horse,  white  with   the  foam  on  his 

flank, 
Leap'd    the  rivulet  lightly.   turn"d   sharp   from    the 

bank, 
And,  approaching    the    Duke,  raised    his    woollen 

capote, 
Row-'d  low  in  the  selle,  and  deliver'd  a  note. 


The  two  stood  astonish'd.      The  Duke,  with  a  gest 
Of  apology,  turn'd,  stretch'd  his  hand,  and  possess 'd 
Himself  of  the  letter,  changed  color,  and  tore 
The  page  open,  and  read. 

Ere  a  moment  was  o'er 
His  whole  aspect  changed.  A  light  rose  to  his  eyes. 
And  a  smile  to  his  lips.  While  with  startled  sur- 
prise 
l.ord  Alfred  yet  watch'd  him,  he  turn'd  on  his  heel, 
And  said  gayly,  "  A  pressing  request  from  Lucile  ! 
Vou  are    quite    right,  Lord    Alfred  !  fair   rivals   at 

worst. 
Our  relative  ])la((  may  perchance  be  reversed. 


LUCILE. 


119 


You  are  not  accepted— nor  free  to  propose  ! 
I.  perchance,  am  accepted  already;  who  knows? 
1  had  warn'd  you,  milord,  I  should   still   persevere. 
This  letter— but  stay  !  you  can  read  it— look  here  !" 

XXI. 

It  was  now  Alfred's  turn  to  feel  roused  and  enraged. 
But  Lucile  to  himself  was  not  pledged  or  engaged 
By  aught  that  could  sanction  resentment.  He  said 
Not  a  word,  but  turn'd  round,  took  the  letter,  and 
read  .  .  . 

The  Comtesse   de  Nevers  to  the  Due   de 
Luvois. 

"  Saint  Saviour 

"  Your  letter,  which   foUow'd   me  here,  makes   me 

stay 
Till  I  see  you  again.     With  no  moment's  delay 
1  entreat,  I  conjure  you,  by  all  that  you  feel 

Or  profess,  to  come  to  me  directly.  . 

"  LUCTLE. 

XXII. 

"  Your  letter  !"     He  then  had  been  writing  to  her  ! 
Coldly  shrugging  his  shoulders.  Lord  Alfred    said. 

"  Sir, 
Do  not  let  me  detain  you  !" 

The  Duke  smiled  and  bow'd  ; 
Placed  the  note  in  his  bosom  ;  address'd,  half  aloud, 
A   few  words  to  the  messenger.  ..."  Say  your 

despatch 
Will  be  answer'd  ere  nightfall  ;"  then   glanced   at 

his  watch. 
And  turn'd  back  to  the  Baths. 


■■■:?if*^U»«i 


LUCILE. 


XXIII. 
Alfred  Vargrave  stood  still. 
Torn,  distracted  in  heart,  and  divided  in  will. 
He  turn'd  to  Lucile's  farewell  letter  to  him. 
And  read  over  her  words ;  rising  tears  made  them 

dim  ; 
"  Doubt  is  over  ;  my  future  is  fix'  d  now"  they  said. 
"  My  course  is  decided^     Her  course  ?  what  !  to 

wed 
With  this  insolent  rival !     With  that  thought  there 

shot 
Through  his  heart  an  acute  jealous  anguish.     Bui 

not 
Even  thus  could  his  clear  worldly  sense  quite  excuse 
Those  strange  words  to  the  Duke.     She  was  free  to 

refuse 
Himself,  free  the  Duke  to  accept,  it  was  true  : 
Even  then,  though,  this  eager  and  strange  rendez- 
vous 
How  imprudent  1     To  some  unfrequented  lone  inn. 
And  so  late  (for  the  night  was  about  to  begin)— 
She,  companionless  there  !— had    she   bidden   that 

man  ? 
A  fear,  vague,  and  formless,  and  horrible,  ran 
Through  his  heart. 

XXIV. 

At  that  moment  he  look'd  up,  and  saw. 
Riding  fast  through  the  forest,  the  Due  de  Luvois. 
Who  waved  his  hand  to  him,  and  sped  out  of  sight. 
The  day  was  descending.  He  felt  't  would  be  night 
Ere  that  man  reached  Saint  Saviour. 


w 


LUCILE.  121 

XXV. 

He  walk'd  on,  but  not 
Back  toward  Luchon  :  he  walk'd  on,  but  knew  not 

in  what 
Direction,  nor  yet  with  what  object,  indeed. 
He  was  walking  ;  but  still  he  walk'd  on    without 

heed. 

XXVI. 

The  day  had  been  sullen  ;  but,  towards  his  decline, 
The  sun  sent  a  stream  of  wild  light  up  the  pine. 
Darkly  denting  the  red  light  reveal'd  at  its  back. 
The  old  ruin'd  abbey  rose  roofless  and  black. 
The  spring  that  yet  oozed  through  the  moss-paven 

tloor 
Had  suggested,  no  doubt,  to  the  monks  there,  of 

yore,    ■ 
The  sight  of  that  refuge  where,  back  to  its  God 
How  many  a  heart,  now  at  rest  'neath  the  sod. 
Had  borne  from  the  world  all  the  same  wild  unrest 
That  now  prey'd  on  his  own  ! 

XXVII. 

By  the  thoughts  in  his  breast 
With  varying  impulse  divided  and  torn, 
He   traversed   the   scant   heath,    and    reach'd    the 

forlorn 
Autumn  woodland,  in  which  but  a  short  while   ago 
He  had  seen  the  Duke  rapidly  enter  ;  and  so 
He  too  enter'd.     The  light  waned  around  him,  and 

pass'd 
Into  darkness.     The  wrathful,  red  Occident  cast 
One  glare  of  vindictive  inquiry  behind, 


-^^ 


.  ^^^Mll    ^fe^^ 


122  LUCILE. 

As  the  last  li^ht  of  day  from  the  high  wood  dechned, 

And  the  great  forest  sigh'd  its  farewell  to  the  beam. 

And  far  off  on  the  stillness  the  voice  of  the  stream 

Fell  faintly. 

XX  vm. 

O  Nature,  how  fair  is  thy  face. 
And  how  light  is  thy  heart,  and  how  friendless  thy 

grace  ! 
Thou  false  mistress  of  man  I  thou  dost  sport   with 

him  lightly 
In  his  hours  of  ease  and   enjoyment  ;  and  brightly 
Dost  thou  smile  to  his  smile  ;  to  his  joys  thou  in- 

clinest. 
But  his  sorrows,  thou  knowest  them  not,  nor  di- 

vinest. 
While  he  wooes,  thou  art  wanton  ;  thou  lettest  him 

love  thee ; 
But    thou   art   not  his   friend,  for  his   grief   cannot 

move  thee  ; 
And  at  last,  when  he  sickens  and  dies,  what  dost 

thou  } 
All  as  gay  are  thy  garments,  as  careless  thy  brow ! 
And  thou  laughest  and  toyest  with  any  new-comer. 
Not  a  tear  more  for  winter,  a  smile  less  for  summer  I 
Hast  thou   never  an  anguish  to  heave    the   heart 

under 
That  fair  breast  of  thine,  O  thou  feminine   wonder  ! 
For  all   those— the   young,  and   the    fair,  and    the 

strong. 
Who  have  loved  thee,  and  lived  with  thee  gavly  and 

long. 


^OT^ij^ 


L  UCILE. 


^^^     J(t 


123 


And  who  now  on  thy  bosom  lie  dead  ?  and  their 

deeds 
And   their  days    are  forgotten !     O    hast   thou    no 

weeds 
And  not  one   year  of  mourning.— one    out  of   the 

many 
That  deck  thy  new  bridals  forever,— nor  any 
Regrets  for  thy  lost  loves,  conceal'd  from  the  new, 
O  thou  widow  of  earth's  generations  ?     Go  to  ! 
If  the  sea  and  the  night  wind  knew  aught  of  these 

things. 
They  do  not  reveal  it.     We  are  not  thy  kings. 


CANTO  VI. 

I. 
"The  huntsman  has  ridden  too  far  on  the  chase. 
And  eltrich,  and  eerie,  and  strange  is  the  place ! 
The  castle  betokens  a  date  long  gone  by. 
He  crosses  the  courtyard  with  curious  eye  : 
He  wanders  from  chamber  to  chamber,  and  yet 
From  strangeness  to  strangeness  his  footsteps  are 

set  ; 
And  the  whole  place  grows  wilder  and  wilder,  and 

less 
Like  aught  seen  before.     Each  in  obsolete  dress. 
Strange  portraits  regard  him  with  looks  of  surprise, 
Strange    forms  from    the   arras    start   forth  to  his 

eyes  ; 
Strange  epigraphs,  blazon'd.  burn  out  of  the  wall  : 


i 


t 

'-IU 

\ 


Jii^&l 


124 


LUCILE. 


% 


The  spell  of  a  wizard  is  over  it  all. 

In    her  chamber,  enchanted,  the  Princess  is  sleep- 
ing 

The  sleep  which  for  centuries  she  has  been  keeping. 

If  she  smile  in  her  sleep,  it  must  be  to  some  lover 

Whose   lost  golden    locks    the    long   grasses    now 
cover  ; 

If  she  moan  in  her  dream,  it  must  be  to  deplore 

Some  grief   which  the  world    cares  to    hear  of   nc 
more. 

But  how  fair  is  her  forehead,  how  calm  seems    her 
cheek  ! 

And    how   sweet   must  that    voice  be,  if  once    she 
would  speak  ! 

He  looks  and  he  loves  her  ;  but  knows  he  (not  he  !) 

The  clew  to  unravel  this  olrl  mystery  .■* 

And  he  stoops  to  those  shut  lips.     The  shapes  on 
the  wall, 

The  mute  men  in  armor  around  him,  and  all 

The  weird  figures  frown,  as  though  striving  to  say, 

'  Halt .'  invade  not  the  Past,  reckless  child  of  To- 
day ! 

And  give  not,  O  madman  f  the  heart  in  thy  breast 

To  a  phantom,  the  soul  of  whose  sense  is  possess  d 

Bv  an  Age  not  thine  own  .'  ' 

"  But  unconscious  is  he. 

And  he  heeds  not  the  warning,  he  cares  not  to  see 

Aught  but  one  form  before  him  ! 

"  Rash,  wild  words  are  o'er  ; 

And  the  vision  is  vanish'd  from  sight  evermore ! 

And  the  gray  morning  sees,  as  it  drearily  moves 


L  UCILE. 


125 


O'er  a  land  long  deserted,  a  madman  that  roves 
Through  a  ruin,  and  seeks  to  recapture  a  dream. 
Lost    to    life    and    its    uses,    withdrawn     from    the 

scheme 
Of  man's  waking  existence,  he  wanders  apart." 
And  this  is  an  old  fairy-tale  of  the  heart. 
It  is  told  in  all  lands,  in  a  different  tongue ; 
Told  with  tears  by  the  old,  heard  with  smiles  by  the 

young. 
And  the  tale  to  each  heart  unto  which  it  is  known 
Has   a  different  sense.     It  has  puzzled  my  own. 

11. 

Eugene  de  Luvois  was  a  man  who,  in  part 

From    strong   physical    health,   and    that  vigor   of 

heart 
Which  physical  health  gives,  and  partly,  perchance. 
From  a  generous  vanity  native  to  France, 
With  the  heart  of  a  hunter,  whatever  the  quarry. 
Pursued  it,  too  hotly  impatient  to  tarry 
Or  turn,  till  he  took  it.     His  trophies  were  trifles  : 
But  trifler  he  was  not.     When  rose-leaves  it  rifles. 
No  less  than  when  oak-trees  it  ruins,  the  wind 
Its  pleasure  pursues  with  impetuous  mind. 
Both  Eugene  de  Luvois  and  Lord  Alfred    had  been 
Men  of  pleasure  :  but  men's    pleasant  vices,  which, 

seen 
Floating    faint,    in  the   sunshine   of    Alfred's  soft 

mood, 
Seem'd  amiable  foibles,  by  Luvois  pursued 
With  impetuous  passion,  seemed  semi-Satanic. 


5 

5J 


126 


L  UCILE. 


Half  pleased  you  see   brooks  play  with  pebbles  ;  in 

panic 
You  watch  them  whirl'd  down  by  the  torrent. 

In  truth. 
To  the  sacred  political  creed  of  his  youth 
The  century  which  he  was  born  to  denied 
All  realization.     Its  generous  pride 
To  degenerate  protest  on  all  things  was  sunk  ; 
Its  principles  each  to  a  prejudice  shrunk. 
Down  the  path  of  a  life  that  led  nowhere  he  trod, 
Where  his  whims  were  his  guides,  and  his  will  was 

his  god. 
And  his  pastime  his  purpose. 

From  boyhood  possess'd 
Of  inherited  wealth,  he  had  learn'd  to  invest 
Both  his    wealth  and   those  passions    wealth  frees 

from  the  cage 
Which  penury  locks,  in  each  vice  of  an  age 
All  the  virtues  of  which,  by  the  creed  he  revered. 
Were  to  him  illegitimate. 

Thus,  he  appear'd 
To   the   world   what  the   world  chose  to  have  him 

appear, — 
The  frivolous  tyrant  of  Fashion,  a  mere 
Reformer  in  coats,  cards,  and  carriages !     Still 
'Twas  this  vigor  of  nature,  and  tension  of  will. 
That   found   for  the  first     time— perhaps    for    the 

last- 
In  Lucile    what  they   lacked  yet   to  free  from  the 

Past, 
Force,  and  faith,  in  the  Future. 


'^¥^ 


L  UCILE. 


127 


And  so,  in  his  mind, 
To  the  anguish  of  losing  the  woman  was  join'd 
The  terror  of  missing  his  life's  destination, 
Which  in  her  had  its  mystical  representation. 


And  truly,  the  thought  of  it,  scaring  him,  pass'd 
O'er  his  heart,  while  he  now  through  the  twilight 

rode  fast. 
As  a  shade  from  the  wing  of  some  great  bird  ob- 
scene 
In  a  wide  silent  land  may  be  suddenly  seen. 
Darkening  over  the   sands,   where  it  startles   and 

scares 
Some  traveller  stray'd  in  the  waste  unawares. 
So  that  thought  more  than  once  darken'd  over  his 

heart 
Yox  a  moment,  and  rapidly  seem'd  to  depart. 
Fast  and  furious  he  rode  through  the  thickets  which 

rose 
Up  the  shaggy  hillside :  and  the  quarrelling  crows 
Clang'd  above  him,  and  clustering  down  the  dim  air 
Dropp'd  into  the    dark    woods.     By  fits   here   and 

there 
Shepherd  fires  faintly  gleam 'd  from  the  valleys.  Oh, 

how 
He  envied  the  wings  of  each  wild  bird,  as  now 
He  urged  the  steed  over  the  dizzy  ascent 
Of  the  mountain  !     Behind  him  a  murmur  was  sent 
From  the  torrent— before  him  a    sound  from  the 

tracts 


/',r 


123  LUCILE. 

Of  the   woodlands  that  waved    o'er  the  wild  cata- 
racts. 

And  the    loose  earth   and  loose   stones  roU'd    mo- 
mently down 

From  the  hoofs  of  his  steed  to  abysses  unknown. 

The  red  day  had  fallen  beneath  the  black  woods. 

And  the  Powers  of  the  night   through  the  vast  soli- 
tudes 

Walk'd  abroad  and  conversed  with  each  other.  The 
trees 

Were  in  sound  and    in  motion,  and  mutter'd  like 
seas 

In   Elfland.     The  road  through  the  forest  was  hol- 
low'd. 

On    he  sped  through  the    darkness,  as  though    he 
were  foUow'd 

Fast,  fast  by  the  Erl  King  I 

The  wild  wizard-work 

Of  the  forest  at  last  open'd  sharp,  o'er  the  fork 

Of  a  savage  ravine,  and  l)ehind  the  black  stems 

Of  the  last  trees,  whose  leaves  in    the  light  gleam 'd 
like  gems. 

Broke  the  broad  moon  above  the  voluminous 

Rock-chaos — the  Hecate  of  that  Tartarus  I 

With  his  horse  reeking  white,  he  at  lastreach'd  the 
door 

Of  a  small  mountain  inn,  on  the  brow  of  a  hoar 

Craggy  promontory,  o'er  a  fissure  as  grim. 

Through  which,  ever  roaring,  there  leap'd  o'er  the 
limb 

of  the  rent  rock  a  torrent  of  water,  from  sight. 


€' 


■  A  door  closcil     1-uvois  was  alone  with  l.ucile."— Page  129. 


LUCILE. 


129 


Into  pools  that  were  feeding  the  roots  of  the  night. 
A  balcony  hung  o'er  the  water.     Abov'e 
In  a  glimmering  casement  a  shade  seem'd  to  move. 
At  the  door  the  old  negress  was  nodding  her  head 
As  he  reach'd  it.      "  My  mistress  awaits  you,"  she 

said. 
And  up  the  rude  stairway  of  creaking  pine  rafter 
He  follow'd  her  silent.     A  few  moments  after. 
His  heart  almost  stunn'd  him,  his  head  seem'd  to 

reel, 
For  a  door  closed — Luvois  was  alone  with  Lucile. 


In  a  gray  travelling  dress,  her  dark  hair  unconfined 
Streaming  o'er  it,  and  toss'd  now  and  then  bv  the 

wind 
From  the  lattice,  that  waved  the  dull  flame  in  a  spire 
From  a  brass  lamp  before  her — a  faint  hectic  fire 
On  her  cheek,  to  her  eyes  lent  the  lustre  of  fever  : 
They  seem'd  to  have   wept  themselves   wider  than 

ever, 
Those  dark  eyes— so  dark  and  so  deep  ! 

"  You  relent  } 
And  your  plans  have  been  changed  by  the  letter  I 

sent }" 
There  his  voice  sank,  borne  down  by  a  strong  in- 
ward strife. 

Lucile. 

Your  letter!     yes.    Duke.     For  it  threatens  man's 

life- 
Woman's  honor. 


,^_ 


130  LUCILE. 

Luvois. 
The  last,  madam,  not ! 

LUCILE. 

Both.     I  glance 
At  your  own  words  ;  blush,  son  of  the  knighthood 

of  France, 
As  I  read  them  !     You  say  in  this  letter  .  .  . 

'•  /  ktioii' 
Why  now  yon  refuse  me  ;  7  is  {is  it  not  so?) 
For  the  man  who  has  trifled  before,  wantonly. 
And  no7U  trifles  again  with  the  heart  you  deny 
To  myself.      But  he   shall  not!     By  mans  last 

wild  law, 
I  will  seize  on  the  right  (the  right,  Due  de  Luvois!) 
To  avenge  for  you,  woman,  the  past,  and  to  gi-^e 
To  the  future  its  freedom.     That  man  shall  not  live 
To  make  you  as  wretched  as  you  have  made  me  !" 

Luvois. 
Well,  madam,  in  those  words  what  word  do  you  see 
That  threatens  the  honor  of  woman  ? 

LUCILE. 

See !  .  .  .  what, 
What  word,  do  you  ask  }     Every  word  !  would  you 

not. 
Had  I   taken   your  hand  thus,  have  fell   that  your 

name 
Was  soil'd  and  dishonor'd  by  more  than  mere  shame 
If  the  woman  that  bore  it  had  first  been  the  cause 
Of  the  crime  which  in   these  words  is   menaced  ? 

You  pause ! 


\ 


%..- 


L  UCILE. 


I3i 


Woman's  honor,  you  ask  ?  Is  there,  sir,  no  dishonor 
In  the  smile  of  a  woman,  when  men,  gazing  on  her, 
Can  shudder,  and  say.  "In  that  smile  is  a  grave  "  ? 
No  !  you  can  have  no  cause,  Duke,  for  no  right  you 

have 
In  the  contest  you  menace.     That  contest  but  draws 
Every  right  into  ruin.     By  all  human  laws 
Of  man's  heart  I  forbid  it,  by  all  sanctities 
Of  man's  social  honor  ! 

The  Duke  droop'd  his  eyes. 
"  I  obey  you,"  he  said,  "  but  let  woman  beware 
How  she  plays  fast  and  loose  thus  with  human  de- 
spair. 
And  the  storm  in  man's  heart.     Madam,  yours  was 

the  right, 
When  you   saw  that  I   hoped,  to  extinguish   hope 

quite. 
But  you  should  from  the  tirst  have  done  this,  for  I  feel 
That  you  knew  from  the  first  that  I  loved  you." 

Lucile 
This  sudden  reproach  seem'd  to  startle. 

She  raised 
.A.  slow,  wistful  regard  to  his  features,  and  gazed 
On  them  silent  awhile.     His  own  looks  were  down- 
cast. 
Through  her  heart,  whence  its  first  wild  alarm  was 

now  pass'd, 
Pity  crept,  and  perchance  o'er  her  conscience  a  tear, 
Falling  softly,  awoke  it. 

However  severe, 
Were  they  unjust,  these  sudden  upbraidings.  to  her  ? 


5^ 


132 


/-  UCILE. 


Had  she  lightly  misconstrued  this  man's  character. 
Which  had  seem'd,  even  when  most  impassion 'd  it 

seem'd. 
Too  self-conscious  to  lose  all   in   love  ?     Had  she 

deem'd 
That  this  airy,  gay,  insolent  man  of  the  world. 
So  proud  of  the  place  the  world  gave  him,  held  furl'd 
In  his  bosom  no  passion  which  once  shaken  wide 
Might  tug,  till  it  snapp'd,  that  erect   lofty  pride.-' 
Were  those  elements  in  him,  which  once  roused  to 

strife 
Overthrow    a    whole  nature,   and   change  a  whole 

life  ? 
There  are  two  kinds  of  strength.     One,  the  strength 

of  the  riser 
Which   through  continents  pushes  its  ])athwav  fnr- 

e\er 
To  fling  its  fond  heart  in  the  sea ;  if  it  lose 
This,  the  aim  of  its  life,  it  is  lost  to  its  use. 
It  goes  mad,  is  diffused  into  deluge,  and  dies. 
The  other,  the  strength  of  the  sea  ;  which  supplies 
Its  deep  life  from  mysterious  sources,  and  draws 
The  river's  life  into  its  own  life,  by  laws 
Which  it  heeds  not.       The  difference  in   each  case 

is  this  : 
The  river  is  lost,  if  the  ocean  it  miss  ; 
If  the  sea  miss  the  river,  what  matter  }     The  sea 
Is  the  sea  still,  forever.     Its  deep  heart  will  be 
Self-sufficing,  unconscious  of  loss  as  of  yore  ; 
Its  sources  are  infinite  ;  still  to  the  shore, 
With  no  diminution  of  pride,  it  will  say. 


( 


LUCILE.  133 

•  I   am  here  ;    I,   the   sea ;  stand   aside,  and   make 

way  !" 
Was  his  love,  then,  the  love  of  the  river  ?  and  she. 
Had  she  taken  that  love  for  the  love  of  the  sea  ? 


At  that  thought,  from  her  aspect  whatever  had  been 
Stern  or  haughty  departed  ;  and,  humbled  in  mien, 
She  approach'd   him,  and   brokenly  murmur'd,   as 

though 
To  herself  more  than  him,  "  Was  I  wrong  ?  is  it  so  ? 
Hear  me,  Duke  !  you  must  feel  that,  whatever  you 

deem 
Your  right  to  reproach  me  in  this,  your  esteem 
.1  may  claim  on  cvic  ground — I  at  least  am  sincere. 
You  say  that  to  me  from  the  tirst  it  was  clear 
That  you   loved  me.     But  what   if  this  knowledge- 

were  known 
At  a  moment  in  life  when  I  felt  most  alone. 
And  least  able  to  be  so  ?  a  moment,  in  fact. 
When  I  strove  from  one  haunting  regret  to  retract 
And  emancipate  life,  and  once  more  to  fulfil 
Woman's  destinies,  duties,  and  hopes  "i  would   you 

still 
So  bitterly  blame  me,  Eugene  de  Luvois, 
If  I  hoped  to  see  all  this,  or  deem'd  that  I  saw 
For  a  moment  the  promise  of  this,  in   the   plighted 
Affection  of  one  who,  in  nature,  united 
So  much  that  from  others  affection  might  claun. 
If  only  affection  were  free  ?     Do  you  blame 
The  hope  of  that  moment  }     I  deem'd  my  heart  free 


$ 


134 


/.  UCILE. 


^r 


From  all.  >aving  sorrow.     I  deem'd  that  in  mc 
There  was  yet  strength  to   mould   it  once  more   to 

my  will. 
To  uplift  it  once  more  to  my  hope.     Do  you  still 
Blame  me,  Duke,  that  I  did  not  then  bid  you  refrain 
From  hope  ?  alas  I  I  too  then  hoped  I" 

LuvoiS. 

Oh,  again, 

Yet  again,  say  that  thrice  blessed  word  !  say,  Lucile, 

That  you  then  deign'd  to  hope — 

Lucile. 

Yes  !  to  hope  I  could  feel. 
And  could  give  to  you,  that   without  which,  all  else 

given 
Were  but  to  deceive,  and  to  injure  you  even  : — 
A  heart  free  from  thoughts  of  another.     Say,  then. 
Do  vou  blame  that  one  hope .'' 

Lrvois. 

O  Lucile  ! 

Say  again." 
She  resumed,  gazing  down,  and  with  faltering  tone, 
"  Do  you  blame  me  that,  when  I  at  last  had  to  own 
To  my  heart  that  the  hope  it  had  cherish'd  was  o'er. 
And  forever,  I  said  to  you  tlien.  '  Hoi)e  no  more  '  ? 
1  mvself  hoped  no  more  I" 

With  but  ill-sui)i)ress'd  wrath 
riie  Duke  answer'd  ..."  \V!iat.  then  !  he  recrosses 

your  path 
This  man,  and  you  have  but  to  see  him,  despiti- 
Of  his  troth  to  another,  to  take  back  that  light 


I.UCILE. 


135 


1 


Worthless   heart  to  your  own,   which  he  wrong'd 

years  ago  !" 
Lucile  faintly,  brokenly  murmur'd  .  .  .  •'  No !  no  ! 
T  is  not  that— but  alas !— but  I  cannot  conceal 
That  I  have  not  forgotten  the  past— but  I  feel 
That  I  cannot  accept  all  these  gifts  on  your  part- 
In  return  for  what  .  .  .  ah,  Duke,  what  is  it  ?  .  .  . 

a  heart 
Which  is  only  a  ruin  I" 

With  words  warm  and  wild, 
"  Though  a  ruin  it  be,  trust  me  yet  to  rebuild 
And  restore  it,"  Luvois cried  ;  "though  ruin'd  it  be. 
Since  so  dear  is  that  ruin,  ah,  yield  it  to  me !" 
He  approach'd  her.     She  shrank  back.     The  grief 

in  her  eyes 
Answer'd,  "  No  !" 

An  emotion  more  fierce  seem'd  to  rise 
And  to  break  into  flame,  as  though  fired  by   the 

light 
Of  that  look,  in  his  heart.     He  exclaim'd,  "  Am  I 

right  ? 
You  reject  mc  !  accept  Jtiin  ■'" 

"  I  have  not  done  so," 

She  said  firmly.     He  hoarsely  resumed,  "  Not  yet- 
no  ! 
But  can  you  with  accents  as  firm  promise  me 
That  you  will  not  accept  him  ?" 

"  Accept  ?     Is  he  free  ? 

Free  to  offer  ?"  she  said. 

"  You  evade  me,  Lucile." 
He  replied  ;  "  ah,  you  will  not  avow  what  you  feel  ! 


i-,6 


Z  UCILE. 


He  might  make  himself  free  ?     Oh,  you  blush— turn 

away ! 
Dare  you  openly  look  in  my  face,  lady,  say  I 
While  you  deign  to  reply  to  one  question  from  me  ? 
I  may  hope  not,  you  tell  me  :  but  tell  me,  may  he  ? 
What  !  silent  ?     I  alter  my  question.     If  quite 
Freed  in  faith  from  this  troth,  might  he  hope  then  ?" 

"  He  might," 
She  said  softly. 

VI. 

Those  two  whisper'd  words,  in  his  breast. 
As  he  heard   them,  in  one  maddening  moment  re- 
least 
All  that's  evil  and  fierce  in  man's  nature,  to  crush 
And  extinguish    in  man  all   that's   good.     In    the 

rush 
Of  wild  jealousy,  all  the  tierce  passions  that  waste 
And  darken  and  devastate  intellect,  chased 
From  its  realm  human  reason.     The  wild  animal 
In  the  bosom  of  man  was  set  free.     And  of  all 
Human  passions  the  fiercest,  fierce  jealousy,  fierce 
As  the   fire,  and  more  wild   than   the  whirlwind,  to 

pierce 
.Anil   to   rend,   rush'd    ujioii    him  ;    fierce   jealousy. 

swell'd 
By  all  passions  bred  from  it,  and  ever  impell'd 
To  involve  all  things  else  in  the  anguish  within  it, 
.Vnd  on  others  inflict  its  own  pangs  I 

At  that  minute 
What  pass'd  through  his  mind,  who  shall  say  ?  whr 
may  tell 


LUCILE. 


137 


The  dark  thoughts  of  man's  heart,  which  the  red 

glare  of  hell 
Can  illumine  alone  ? 

He  stared  wildly  around 
That  lone  place,  so  lonely  !  That  silence  !  no  sound 
Reach'd  that  room,  through  the  dark  evening  air, 

save  drear 
Drip  and  roar  of  the  cataract  ceaseless  and  near  I 
It   was    midnight   all    round   on   the   weird    silent 

weather  ; 
Deep  midnight  in  him  !     They  two, — lone  and  to- 
gether. 
Himself,  and  that  woman  defenceless  before  him  ! 
The  triumph  and  bliss  of  his  rival  tlash'd  o'er  him. 
The  abyss  of  his  own  black  despair  seem'd  to  ope 
At  his  feet,  with  that  awful  exclusion  of  hope 
Which  Dante  read  over  the  city  of  doom. 
All  the  Tarquin  pass'd  into  his  soul  in  the  gloom. 
And,  uttering  words  he  dared  never  recall. 
Words  of  insult  and  menace,  he  thunder'd  down  all 
The  brew'd  storm-cloud    within  him  :    its  flashes 

scorch'd  blind 
His  own  senses.     His  spirit  was  driven  on  the  wind 
Of  a  reckless  emotion  beyond  his  control ; 
A  torrent  seem'd  loosen'd  within  him.     His  soul 
Surged  up  from  that  caldron  of  passion  that  hiss'd 
And  seeth'd  in  his  heart. 


VII. 


He  had  thrown,  and  had  miss'd 


His  last  stake. 


138 


LUCILE. 


For,  transfigured,  she   rose  from  the  place 

Where  he  rested  o'erawed :  a  saint's  scorn  on  her  face; 

Such  a  dread  vade  retro  was  written  in  Ught 

(^!i  her  forehead,    the   fiend  would    himself,  at  that 
sight, 

Have  sunk  back  abash'd  to  perdition.     I  know 

If  Lucretia  at  Tarquin  but  once  had  look'd  so. 

She  had  needed  no  dagger  next  morning. 

She  rose 

And  swept  to  the  door,  like  that  phantom  the  snows 

?>el  at  nightfall    sweep  o'er  them,  when  daylight  is 
gone. 

And  Caucasus  is  with  the  moon  all  alone. 

There  she  paused  ;  and,  as  though  from  immeasura- 
ble, 

Insurpassable  distance,  she  murmur'd — 

"  Farewell  ! 

We,  alas  I  have  mistaken  each  other.     Once  more 

Illusion,  to-night,  in  my  lifetime  is  o'er. 

Due  de  Luvois,  adieu  I" 

From  th','  heart-breaking  gloom 

Of  that  vacant,  reproachful,  and  desolate  room, 

He  felt  she  was  gone — gone  forever  I 

IX. 

No  word. 
The  sharpest  that  ever  was  edged  like  a  sword. 
Could    have  pierced  to  his  heart  with  such  keen  ac- 
cusation 
As  the  silence,  the  sudden  profound  isolation. 
In  which  he  remain'd. 


^ri^^^iS^ 


r 


L  UCILE. 


139 


"  O  reluin  ;   1  rtpeiil  !" 
He  exclaim'd  ;  but  no  sound  through  the  stillness 

was  sent, 
Save  the  roar  of  the  water,  in  answer  to  him. 
And  the  beetle  that,  sleeping,  yet  humm'd  her  night 

hymn  : 
All  indistinct  anthem,  that  troubled  the  air 
With  a  searching,  and    wistful,    and      questioning 

prayer. 
•■  Return,"  sung  the  wandering  insect.     The  roar 
Of  the  waters  replied.   "  Nevermore!  nevermore  !" 
He  vvalk'd  to  the  windo\\ .     The  spray  on  his  brow 
Was  flung  cold  from  the  whirlpools  of  water  below  ; 
The  frail  wooden  balcony  shook  in  the  sound 
Of  the  torrent.     The  mountains  gloom'd   sullenly 

round. 
A  candle  one  ray  from  a  closed  casement  flung. 
O'er  the  dim  balustrade  all  bewilder'd  he  hung, 
\aguely  watching  the  broken  and  shimmering  blink 
Of  the  stars  on  the  veering  and  vitreous  brink 
Of   that    snake-like  prone   column  of    water;   and 

listing 
Aloof  o'er  the  languors  of  air  the  persisting 
Sharp  horn  of  the  gray  gnat.     Before  he  relinquish'd 
His    unconscious   employment,  that  light  was  e.\- 

tinguish'd. 
Wheels,  at  last,  from  the  inn  door  aroused  him.  He 

ran 
Down  the  stairs  ;  reached  the  door— just  to  see  her 

depart. 
Down  the  mountain  the  carriage  was  speeding. 


\  f\ 


140 


Z  UCILE. 


His  heart 
Pealed  the   knell  of  its  last  hope.     He  rush'd  on  ; 

but  whither 
He  knew  not — on,  into  the  dark  cloudy  weather — 
The  midnight — the  mountains — on,  over  the  shelf 
Of  the  precipice — on,  still — away  from  himself ! 
Till,  exhausted,  he  sank  'mid  the  dead  leaves  and 

moss 
At  the  mouth  of   the  forest.     A  glimmering  cross 
Of  gray  stone  stood  for  prayer  by  the  woodside.  He 

sank 
Prayerless,  powerless,    down  at  its  base,  'mid   the 

dank 
Weeds  and   grasses  ;    his   face  hid  amongst  them. 

He  knew 
That  the  night  had  divided  his  whole  life  in  two. 
Behind  him  a  Past  that  was  over  forever  : 
Before  him  a  Future  devoid  of  endeavor 
And  purpose.     He  felt  a  remorse  for  the  one. 
Of    the    other   a    fear.      What     remain 'd    to    be 

done? 
Whither  now  should  he  turn  ?     Turn  again,  as  be- 
fore. 
To  his  old  easy,  careless  existence  of  yore 
He  could  not.     He  felt  that  for  better  or  worse 
A    change  had  pass'd  o'er  him  ;  an  angry  remorse 
Of  his  own  frantic  failure  and  error  had  marr'd 
Such  a  refuge  forever.     The  future  seem'd  barr'd 
By  the  corpse  of  a  dead  hope  o'er   which   he    must 

tread 


w 


LUCILE. 


141 


m 


To  attain  it.     Life's   wilderness    round    him   was 

spread. 
What  clew  there  to  cling  by  ? 

He  clung  by  a  name 
To  a  dynasty  fallen  forever.     He  came 
Of  an  old  princely   house,    true  through  change  to 

the  race 
And  the  sword  of  Saint  Louis— a  faith  't  were  dis- 
grace 
To  relinquish,  and  folly  to  live  for !    Nor  less 
Was  his  ancient  religion  (once  potent  to  bless 
Or  to  ban  ;  and  the  crozier  his  ancestors  kneel'd 
To  adore,  when  they  fought  for  the  Cross,  in  hard 

field 
With    the  Crescent)   become,  ere  it  reach'd    him, 

tradition  ; 
A  mere  faded  badge  of  a  social  position  ; 
A  thing  to  retain  and  say  nothing  about, 
Lest,  if  used,   it    should  draw    degradation    from 

doubt. 
Thus,  the    first  time   he  sought  them,  the  creeds  of 

his  youth 
Wholly  fail'd  the  strong  needs  of  his  manhood,  in 

truth ! 
And  beyond  them,    what  region  of  refuge  ?  what 

field 
For  employment,  this  civilized  age,  did  it  yield. 
In  that  civilized  land  ?  or  to  thought  ?  or  to  action  ? 
Blind  deliriums,  bewilder'd  and  endless  distraction ! 
Not  even  a  desert,  not  even  the  cell 
Of  a  hermit  to  flee  to,  wherein  he  might  quell 


Jrif   y^^^&Sa^ 


■:^£^n^^     €:■ 


M^ 


Z  UCILE. 


The  wild  devil-instincts  which  now,  unreprest, 
Kan  riot  through  that  ruin'd  world  in  his  breast. 


So  he  lay  there,  like  Lucifer,  fresh  from  the  sight 
Of  a  heaven  scaled  and  lost ;    in  the  wide  arms  of 

night 
O'er  the  howling  abysses  of  nothingness  I  There 
As  he  lay,  Nature's   deep  voice  was  teaching  him 

prayer ; 
But  what  had  he  to  pray  to  ? 

The  winds  in  the  woods, 
The  voices  abroad  o'er  those  vast  solitudes. 
Were    in    commune    all    round    with    the    invisible 

Power 
That   walk'd   the  dim     world    by    Himself  at  that 

hour. 
But  their   language    he  had  not  yet  learn'd — in  de- 
spite 
Of  the  much  he  had  learn'd — or  forgotten  it  quite. 
With  its  once  native  accents.     Alas  !  what   had   he 
To  add  to  that  deep-toned  sublime  symphony 
Of  thanksgiving?  ...  A  fiery  finger  was  still 
Scorching  into  his  heart  some  dread  sentence.     His 

will. 
Like  a  wind  that  is  put  to  no  purpose,  was  wild 
At  its  work  of  destruction   within  him.     The  child 
Of  an  infidel  age,  he  had  been  his  own  god. 
His  own  devil. 

He  sat  on  the  damp  mountain  sod. 
And  stared  sullenly  up  at  the  dark  sky. 


I 


■«*j6i.':>-  .j-::.'-^' 


^*5a^ 


L  UCILE. 


143 


The  clouds 
Had     heap'd    themselves    over  the  bare    west    in 

crowds 
Of  misshapen,  incongruous  potents.     A  green 
Streak  of  dreary,  cold,  luminous  ether,  between 
The  base  of  their  black  barricades,  and  the  ridge 
Of  the  grim  world,  gleam'd  ghastly,  as  under  some 

bridge. 
Cyclop-sized,  in  a  city  of  ruins  overthrown 
By  sieges  forgotten,  some  river,  unknown 
And  unnamed,  widens  on  into  desolate  lands. 
While  he  gazed,  that  cloud-city  invisible  hands 
Dismantled  and  rent ;  and  reveal'd,  through  a  loop 
In  the  breach'd  dark,  the  blemish'd  and  half-broken 

hoop 
(Jf  the  moon,  which  soon  silently  sank ;  and  anon 
The  whole  supernatural  pageant  was  gone. 
The  wide  night,  discomforted,  conscious  of  loss. 
Darken 'd  round  him.     One  object  alone— that  gray 

cross — 
Ghmmer'd  faint  on  the  dark.     Gazing  up,  he  de- 
scried 
Through  the  void  air,  its  desolate  arms  outstretch \1 

wide. 
As  though  to  embrace  him. 

He  turn'd  from  the  sight. 
Set  his  face  to  the  darkness,  and  tied. 

XII. 

When  the  light 

Of  the  dawn  grayly  flicker'd  and  glared  on  the  spent 

Wearied  ends  of  the  night,  like  a  hope  that  is  sent 


-JBtJW.'J.  .[3^. 


It 


^s?''**'*'*- 1-< 


^^^^^ 


144 


LUCILE. 


To    the    need   of  some  grief  when  its  need  is  the 

sorest, 
He  was  sullenly  riding  across  the  dark  forest 
Toward  Luchon. 

Thus  riding,  with  eyes  of  defiance 
Set  against  the  young  day,  as  disclaiming  alliance 
With  aught  that  the  day  brings  to  man,  he  perceived 
P\iintly,    suddenly,    fleetingly.  through    the  damp- 
leaved 
Autumn  branches  that  put  forth  gaunt  arms  on  his 

way. 
The  face  of  a  man  pale  and  wistful,  and  gray 
With    the   gray   glare   of    morning.      Eugene   de 

Luvois, 
With  the  sense  of  a  strange  second  sight,  when  he 

saw 
That  phantom-like  face,  could  at  once  recognize. 
By  the  sole  instinct  now  left  to  guide  him,  the  eyes 
Of  his  rival,  though  Heeting  the  vision  and  dim. 
With  a  stern  sad  inquiry  tix'd  keenly  on  him. 
And,  to  meet  it,  a  lie  leap'd  at  once  to  his  own  ; 
A  lie  born  of  that  lying  darkness  now  grown 
Over  all  in  his  nature  !     He  answer'd  that  gaze 
With  a  look  which,  if  ever  a  man's  look  conveys 
Mure  intensely  than  words  what  a  man  means,  con- 
vey'd 
Beyond  doubt  in  its  smile  an  announcement  which 

said, 
"  /  have  triumph' d.    The  question  your  eyes  would 

imply 
Comes  too  late,  Alfred  Vargrave  /" 


'J 


"i^j^C 


^^'"•^^wSfTiT'^^^"-  ^r^-^j^^^'^"^" 


LUCILE. 


And  so  he  rode  by 
And  rode  on,  and  rode  gayly,  and  rode  out  of  sight, 
Leaving  that  look  behind  him  to  rankle  and  bite. 

XIII. 
And  it  bit,  and  it  rankled. 

XIV. 

Lord  Alfred,  scarce  knowing. 
Or  choosing,  or  heeding  the  way  he  was  going, 
By  one  wild  hope  impell'd,  by  one  wild  fear  pursued. 
And  led  by  one  instinct,  which  seem'd  to  exclude 

From  his  mind  every  human  sensation,  save  one 

The  torture  of  doubt— had  stray'd  moodily  on, 
Down  the  highway  deserted,  that  evening  in  which 
With  the  Duke  he  had  parted ;  stray'd  on,  through 

rich 
Haze  of  sunset,  or  into  the  gradual  night. 
Which  darken'd,  unnoticed,  the  land  from  his  sight. 
Toward  Saint  Saviour ;  nor  did  the  changed  aspect 

of  all 
The  wild  scenery  round  him  avail  to  recall 
To  his  senses  their  normal  perceptions,  until, 
As  he  stood  on  the  black  shaggy  brow  of  the  hill 
At   the  mouth  of  the  forest,  the  moon,  which  had 

hung 
Two    dark  hours  in   a  cloud,  slipp'd   on  fire    from 

among 
The   rent    vapors,  and    sunk    o'er  the   ridge  of  the 

world. 
Then  he  lifted  his  eyes,  and  saw  round   him   un- 

furl'd. 


-Sat 


'Mr: 


146 


L  UCILE. 


In   one   moment  of  splendor,  the   leagues  of  dark 

trees, 
And  the  long  rocky  line  of  the  wild  Pyrenees. 
And  he  knew  by  the  milestone  scored  rough  on  the 

face 
Of  the  bare  rock,  he  was  but  two  hours  from  the 

place 
Where    Lucile  and  Luvois  must  have  met.     This 

same  track 
The  Duke   must  have  traversed,  perforce,    to   get 

back 
To  Luchon  ;  not  yet  then  the  Duke  had  return 'd  ! 
He  listen'd,  he  look'd  up  the  dark,  but  discern'd 
Not  a  trace,  not  a  sound  of  a  horse  by  the  way. 
He  knew  that  the  night  was  approaching  to  day. 
He  resolved  to  proceed  to  Saint  Saviour.  The  morn 
Which,  at  last,  through  the  forest    broke  chill  and 

forlorn, 
Reveal'd  to  him,  riding  toward  Luchon,  the  Duke. 
'Twas  then  that  the  two  men  exchanged  look  for 

look. 

XV. 

And  the  Duke's  rankled  in  him. 

XVI. 

He  rush'd  on.     He  tore 
His  path  through  the  thicket.     He  reach'd  the  inn 

door, 
Roused  the  yet  drowsing  porter,  reluctant  to  rise, 
And  inquired  for  the  Countess.     The  man  rubb'd 

his  eyes. 
The  Countess  was  gone.     .\nd  the  Duke  ? 


I 


^tWy-'^^F^ 


LUCILE.  147 

The  man  stared 

A  sleepy  inquiry. 

With  accents  that  scared 

The  man's  dull  sense  awake,  "  He,  the  stranger," 
he  cried, 

*'  Who  had  been  there  that  night !" 

The  man  grinn'd  and  replied 

With  a  vacant  intelligence,  "  He,  oh  ay,  ay  ! 

He  went  after  the  lady." 

No  further  reply 

Could  he  give.  Alfred  Vargrave  demanded  no  more. 

Flung  a  coin  to  the  man,  and  so  turn'd  from   the 
door. 

"What!  the  Duke  then  the  night  in  that  lone  inn 
had  pass'd  ? 

In  that  lone  inn — with  her  !"     Was  that   look  he 
had  cast 

When  they  met  in  the  forest,  that  look  which  re- 
main'd 

On  his  mind  with  its  terrible  smile,  thus  explain'd  ? 


The  day  was  half  turn'd  to  the  evening,  before 
He  re-enter'd  Luchon,  with  a  heart  sick  and  sore. 
In  the  midst  of  a  light  crowd  of  babblers,  his  look. 
By  their  voices  attracted,  distinguished  the  Duke, 
Gay,  insolent,  noisy,  with  eyes  sparkling  bright, 
With  laughter,  shrill,  airy,  continuous. 

Right 
Through  the  throng  Alfred  Vargrave,  with    swift 
sombre  stride, 


^it<- 


ft^r:---^>t-,         .ci> 


I 


I4S 


L  UCILE. 


elided  on.     The  Duke  noticed  hini,  turn'd,  stepp'd 

aside. 
And,  cordially  grasping  his  hand,  whisper'd  low, 
"  O,  how  right  have  you  been  !     There  can  never  he 

— no, 
]S|ever — any  more  contest  between  us  !     Milord. 
Let  us  henceforth  be  friends  !" 

Having  utter'd  that  word. 
He  turn'd  lightly  round  on  his  heel,  and  again 
His  gay  laughter  was  heard,  echoed  loud  by  that 

train 
Of  his  young  imitators. 

Lord  Alfred  stood  still. 
Rooted,  stunn'd  to  the  spot.     He  felt  weary  and  ill. 
Out  of  heart  with  his  own  heart,  and  sick    to    the 

soul 
With  a  dull,  stifling  anguish    he  could  not  control. 
Does  he  hear  in  a  dream,  through  the  buzz  of    the 

crowd, 
The  Duke's  blithe  associates,  babbling  aloud 
Some  comment  upon  his  gay  humor  that  day  ? 
He  never  was  gayer  :  what  makes  him  so  gay.^ 
'T  is,  no  doubt,  say  the  flatterers,  flattering  in  tune. 
Some  vestal  whose  virtue  no  tongue  dare  impugn 
Has  at  last  found  a  Mars— who,  of  course,  shall  be 

nameless. 
The  vestal  that  yields  to  .\L-irs   only  is    blameless  ! 
Hark  !  hears  he  a  name  which,  thus  syllabled,  stirs 
All  his  heart  into  tumult  ?  .  .  .  Lucile  de  Nevers 
With  the  Duke's  coupled  gayly,  in  some  laughing. 
light, 


.ijr    ~^:,T^..^ 


"^1^" 


i 


L  UCILE. 


U9 


Free  allusion  ?     Not  so  as  might  give  him  the  right 
To  turn  fiercely  round  on  the  speaker,  but  yet 
To  a  trite  and  irreverent  compliment  set  I 

XVIII. 

Slowly,  slowly,  usurping  that  place  in  his  soul 
Where  the  thought  of  Lucile  was  enshrined,   did 

there  roll 
Back  again,  back  again,  on  its  smooth   downward 

course 
O'er  his  nature,  with  gather'd  momentum  and  force. 
The  world. 

XIX. 

"  No  !"  he  mutter'd,  "  she  cannot  have  sinn'd  ! 
True !    women   there   are    (self-named   women    of 

mind  !) 
Who  love  rather  liberty— liberty,  yes  ! 
To  choose  and  to  leave— than  the  legalized  stress 
Of  the  lovingest  marriage.     But  she— is  she  so  ? 
I  will  not  believe  it.     Lucile  ?     Oh  no,  no  ! 
Not  Lucile ! 

"  But  the  world  ?  and,  ah,  what  would  it  sa\-  ? 
O  the  look  of  that  man,  and  his  laughter,  to-day  1 
The  gossip's  light  question  !  the  slanderous  jest ! 
She  is  right !  no,  we  could  not  be  happy.     "T  is  best 
As  it  is.     I  will  wTite  to  her— write,  O  my  heart  ! 
And  accept  her  farewell.     Oicr  farewell  !  must    wt 

part — 
Part  thus,  then  —forever,  Lucile  ?     Is  it  so  ? 
Yes  !  I  feel  it.     We  could  not  be  happy,  I  know. 
'T  was  a  dream  I  we  must  waken  !" 


k^-\ 


f- 


.-^rs^^s^ii^,. 


150 


LUCILE. 


XX. 

With  head  bo\v"d,  as  thoiig-h 
Bv  the  weight  of  the  heart's  resignation,  and  slow 
Moody  footsteps,  he  turned  to  his  inn. 

Drawn  apart 
From  the  gate,  in  the  court-yard,  and  ready  to  start, 
Postboys  mounted,  portmanteaus  pack'd    up   and 

made  fast, 
A  travelhng-carriage,  unnoticed,  he  pass'd. 
He  order'd  his  horse  to  be  ready  anon  : 
Sent,  and  paid,  for  the  reckoning,  and  slowly  pass'd 

on. 
And  ascended  the  staircase,  and  enter'd  his  room. 
It  was  twilight.     The  chamber  was   dark   in   the 

gloom 
Of  the  evening.     He  hstlessly  kindled  a  light. 
On  the  mantel-piece ;  there  a  large  card  caught  his 

sight — 
A  large  card,  a  stout  card,  well  printed  and  plain, 
Nothing  flourishing,  flimsy,  affected,  or  vain. 
It  gave  a  respectable  look  to  the  slab 
That  it  lay  on.     The  name  was — 


Full  familiar  to  him  was  the  name  that  he  saw, 
1-^or  't  was  that  of  his  own  future  uncle-in-law, 


L  UCILE. 


151 


'^^;'^ 


Mrs.  Darcy's  rich  brother,  the  banker,  well  known 
As  wearing  the  longest  philacteried  gown 
Of  all  the  rich  Pharisees  England  can  boast  of ; 
A  shrewd  Puritan  Scot,  whose  sharp  wits  made  the 

most  of 
This  worid  and  the  next ;  having  largely  invested 
Not  only  where  treasure  is  never  molested 
By  thieves,  moth,  or  rust ;   but  on  this  earthly  ball 
Where  interest  was  high,  and  security  small, 
Of  mankind  there  was  never  a  theory  yet 
Not  by  some  individual  instance  upset  : 
And  so  to  that  sorrowful  verse  of  the  Psalm 
Which  declares  that  the  wicked  expand  like   the 

palm 
In  a  world  where  the  righteous  are  stunted  and 

pent, 
A  cheering  exception  did  Ridley  present. 
Like  the  worthy  of  Uz,  Heaven  prosper'd  his  piety. 
The  leader  of  every  religious  society. 
Christian   knowledge   he   labor'd    through    life   to 

promote 
With  personal  profit,  and  knew  how  to  quote 
Both  the  Stocks  and  the  Scripture,  with  equal  ad- 
vantage 
To  himself  and  admiring  friends,  in  this  Cant-Age. 


XXI. 


Whilst  over  this  card  Alfred  vacantly  brooded, 
A  waiter  his  head  through  the  doorway  protruded  : 
"Sir    Ridley     MacNab     with     Milord    wish'd    to 
speak." 


■^<^ 


152 


LUCILE. 


Alfred  Vargrave  could  feel  there  were  tears  on  his 

cheek  ; 
He  brush'd  them  away  with  a  gesture  of  pride. 
He  glanced  at  the  glass  ;  when  his  own  face  he 

eyed. 
He  was  scared  by  its  pallor.     Inclining  his  head, 
He  with  tones  calm,  unshaken,  and  silvery,  said 
"  Sir  Ridley  may  enter." 

In  three  minutes  more 
That  benign  apparition  appear'd  at  the  door. 
Sir  Ridley,  released  for  a  while  from  the  cares 
Of  business,  and  minded  to  breathe  the  pure  airs 
Of  the  blue  Pyrenees,  and  enjoy  his  release, 
In  company  there  with  his  sister  and  niece. 
Found  himself  now  at  Luchon— distributing  tracts 
Sowing  seed  by  the  way,  and  collecting  new  facts 
For  Exeter  Hall ;  he  was  starting  that  night 
For  Bigorre :  he  had  heard,  to  his  cordial  delight, 
That  Lord  Alfred  was  there,  and,  himself,  setting 

out 
For  the  same  destination  :  impatient,  no  doubt  I 
Here  some  commonplace  compliments  as  to  "  the 

marriage" 
Through  his  speech  trickled  softly,  like  honey  :  his 

carriage 
Was   ready.     A    storm    seem'd     to    threaten     the 

weather : 
If  his  young  friend  agreed,  why  not  travel  together  ? 

With  a  footstep  uncertain  and  restless,  a  frown 
Of  perplexity,  during  this  speech,  up  and  down 


i 


-    TT7 


L  UCILE. 


153 


Alfred  Vargrave  was  striding ;  but,  after  a  pause 
And  a  slight  hesitation,  the  which  seem'd  to  cause 
Some    surprise  to    Sir    Ridley,  he  answer'd— "  My 

dear 
Sir  Ridley,  allow  me  a  few  moments  here — 
Half   an  hour   at  the  most — to  conclude  an    affair 
Of  a  nature  so  urgent  as  hardly  to  spare 
My  presence    (which  brought  me,  indeed,  to  this 

spot). 
Before  I  accept  your  kind  offer." 

"  Why  not  ?" 
Said    Sir    Ridley,   and    smiled.      Alfred  Vargrave. 

before 
Sir   Ridley   observed    it,   had   pass'd    through   the 

door. 
A  few  moments  later,  with  footsteps  revealing 
Intense  agitation  of  uncontroU'd  feeling, 
He  was  rapidly  pacing  the  garden  below. 
What  pass'd  through  his  mind  then  is  more  than  I 

know. 
But  before  one  half-hour  into  darkness  had  fled. 
In  the  court-yard  he  stood  with  Sir  Ridley.     His 

tread 
Was  firm  and  composed.     Not  a  sign  on  his  face 
Betray'd  there  the  least  agitation.     "  The  place 
You  so  kindly  have  offer "d,"  he  said,  "  I  accept;" 
And  he  stretch'd  out  his  hand.     The  two  travellers 

stepp'd 
Smiling  into  the  carnage. 

And  thus,  out  of  sight. 
They  drove  down  the  dark  road,  and  into  the  night. 


a 


2^^ 


154 


LUCILE. 


1 


% 


Sir  Ridley  was  one  of  those  wise  men  who,  so  fat 
As  their  power  of  saying  it  goes,  say  with  Zophar, 
"  We,  no  doubt,  are  the  people,  and  wisdom  shall 

die  with  us," 
'I'hough  of  wisdom  like  theirs  there  is  no  small  sup- 
ply with  us. 
Side  by  side  in  the  carriage  ensconced,  the  two  men 
Began  to  converse,  somewhat  drowsily,  when 
Alfred   suddenly  thought — "  Here's  a  man  of  ripe 

age, 
At  my  side,  by  his  fellows  reputed  as  sage. 
Who  looks   happy,  and  therefore  who  must  have 

been  wise. 
Suppose  I  with  caution  reveal  to  his  eyes 
Some  few  of  the  reasons  which  make  me  believe 
That    1    neither    am     happy    nor     wise?    'twould 

relieve 
And  enlighten,  perchance,  my  own    darkness    and 

doubt." 
l"or  which  purpose  a  feeler  he  softly  put  out. 
It  was  snapp'd  up  at  once. 

"  What  is  truth  ?"  jesting  I'ilate 
Ask'd,  and  pass'd  from  the  question  at  once  with  a 

smile  at 
its  utter  futility.     Had  he  address'd  it 
To  Ridley  MacNab,  he  at  least   had  confess'd  it 
Admitted  discussion  !  and  certainly  no  man 
Could   more  promptly  have   answer'd  the  sceptical 

Roman 
Than  Ridley.     Hear  some  street  astronomer  talk  .' 


4 


L  UCILE. 


15: 


Grant  him  two  or  three  hearers,  a  morsel  of  chalk, 
And  forthwith  on  the  pavement  he'll  sketch  you  the 

scheme 
Of  the  heavens.     Then   hear  him   enlarge   on  his 

theme  I 
Not  afraid  of  La  Place,  nor  of  Arago,  he  ! 
He  '11  prove  you  the  whole  plan  in  plain  A  B  C. 
Here  's  your  sun— call  him  A  ;   b's  the  moon  ;  it  is 

clear 
How  the  rest  of  the  alphabet  brings  up  the  rear 
Of  the  planets.     Now  ask  Arago,  ask  La  Place. 
(Your  sages,  who  speak  with  the  heavens  face  to 

face  !) 
Their  science  in  plain  A  B  c  to  accord 
To  your  point-blank  inquiry,  my   friends  !    not   a 

word 
Will   you  get   for  your  pains   from   their  sad  lips. 

Alas  ! 
Not  a  drop  from  the   bottle  that's   quite  full  will 

pass. 
'T  is  the  half-empty  vessel  that  freest  emits 
The  water  that  's  in  it.    'T  is  thus  with  men's  wits  ; 
Or  at  least  with  their  knowledge.     A  man's  capa- 
bility 
Of  imparting  to  others  a  truth  with  facility 
Is  proportion'd  forever  with  painful  exactness 
To  the  portable  nature,  the  vulgar  compactness. 
The  minuteness  in  size,  or  the  lightness  in  weight 
Of  the  truth  he  imparts.     So  small  coins  circulate 
More  freely  than  large  ones.     A  beggar  asks  alms. 
And  we  fling  him  a  sixpence,  nor  feel  any  qualms. 


156 


Z  UCILE. 


But  if  every  street  charity  shook  an  investment, 
Or  each  beggar  to  clothe  we  must  strip  off  a  vest- 
ment, 
The  length  of  the  process  would  limit  the  act ; 
And  therefore  the  truth  that  's  summ'd  up  in  a  tract 
Is  most  lightly  dispensed. 

As  for  Alfred,  indeed. 
On  what  spoonfuls  of  truth  he  was  suffer'd  to  feed 
By  Sir  Ridley,  I  know  not.     This  only  I  know, 
That  the  two  men  thus  talking  continued  to  go 
Onward  somehow,  together — on  into  the  night — 
The   midnight — in    which    they   escape   from    our 
sight. 

XXIII. 

And  meanwhile  a  world  had  been   changed  m  its 

place. 
And  those  glittering  chains  that  o"er   i)lue  balmy 

space 
Hang  the  blessing  of  darkness,  had  drawn  out  of 

sight. 
To  solace  unseen  hemispheres,  the  soft  night ; 
And  the  dew  of  the  dayspring  benignly  descended, 
And    the    fair    morn    to    all    things    new  s:mctiop. 

extended. 
In  the  smile  of  the  East.     And  the  lark  soaring  on, 
Lost  in  light,  shook  the  dawn  with  a  song  from  the 

sun. 
And  the  world  laugh'd. 

It  wanted  but  two  rosy  hours 
F'rom  the  noon,  when  they  pass'd  through  the  thii  k 

passion  (lowers 


W^  w-^J^e 


'  And  will  wander  no  more  ?  '  laugh'd  Matilda."— Page  157. 


L  UCILE. 


157 


Of  the  little  wild  garden  that  dimpled  before 

The  small  house  where  their  carriage  now  stopp'd, 

at  Bigorre. 
And  more  fair  than    the  flowers,  more  fresh  than 

the  dew, 
With    her    white  morning    robe    flitting   joyously 

through 
The  dark  shrubs  with  which    the  soft  hillside  was 

clothed, 
Alfred  Vargrave  perceived,  where  he    paused,  his 

betrothed. 
Matilda  sprang  to  him,  at  once,  with  a  face 
Of   such  sunny    sweetness,    such    gladness,    such 

grace, 
And  radiant  confidence,  childlike  delight, 
That  his  whole  heart  upbraided  itself  at  that  sight. 
And  he  murmur'd,  or  sigh'd,  "  O,  how  could  1  have 

stray'd 
From  this  sweet  child,  or  suffer'd  in  aught  to  invade 
Her  young  claim  on  my  life,  though  it  were  for  an 

hour. 
The  thought  of  another?" 

"  Look  up,  my  sweet  flower  !" 
He  whisper'd  her  softly,  "  my  heart  unto  thee 
Is  return'd,  as  returns  to  the  rose  the  wild  bee !" 
"  And  will  wander  no  more  ?"  laugh'd  Matilda. 

"  No  more," 

He  repeated.    And.  low  to  himself,  "  Yes,  't  is  o'er  ! 

My  course,  too,  is  decided,  Lucile!     Was  1  blind 

To  have  dream'd  that  these  clever  Frenchwomen  of 

mind 


W 


^<<5^R5S!Si- 


J^  ^^m^i^ 


-  -^         -■^^--  ■< 


i^S 


L  UCILE. 


Could  satisfy  simply  a  plain  English  heart, 
Or  sympathize  with  it  ?" 

XXIV. 

And  here  the  first  part 
Of  this  drama  is  over.     The  curtain  falls  furl'd 
On  the  actors  within  it — the  Heart,  and  the  World. 
Woo'd  and   wooer  have   play'd  with  the   riddle  of 

life,— 
Have  they  solved  it  ? 

Appear  !  answer,  Husband  and  Wife  I 


Yet,  ere  bidding  farewell  to  Lucile  de  Nevers, 
Hear  her  own  heart's  farewell  in  this  letter  of  hers. 

The  Comtessk   de  Nevers  to  a    Friend    i\ 
India. 

"  Once  more,  O  my  friend,  to  your  arms  and  your 
heart, 

And  the  places  of  old  .  .  .  never,  never  to  j^art  ! 

Once  more  to  the  palm,  and  the  fountain  I  Once 
more 

To  the  land  of  my  birth,  and  the  deep  skies  of 
yours ! 

From  the  cities  of  Europe,  pursued  by  the  fret 

Of  their  turmoil  wherever  m\'  footsteps  are  set  ; 

From  the  children  that  cry  iox  the  birth,  and  be- 
hold. 

There  is  no  strength  to  bear  them — old  Time  is  so 
old  ! 


-^  ><££Skc«  • 


L  UCILE. 


159 


From  the  world's  weary  masters,  that  come   upon 

earth 
Sapp'd  and  mined    by   the    fever  they   bear   from 

their  birth  ; 
From  the  men   of  small   stature,    mere  parts  of  a 

crowd, 
Born  too  late,  when  the  strength  of  the  world  hath 

been  bow'd  ; 
Back,— back  to  the   Orient,  from  whose  sunbright 

womb 
Sprang  the  giants  which   now  are   no  more,  in  the 

bloom 
And  the  beauty  of  times  that  are  faded  forever  ! 
ro  the   palms !  to  the  tombs  !  to  the  still   Sacred 

River ! 
Where  I  too,  the  child  of  a  day  that  is  done. 
First  leapt  into  life,  and  look'd  up  at  the  sun. 
Back  again,  back  again,  to  the  hill-tops  of  home 
I  come,  O  my  friend,  my  consoler,  I  come  I 
Are  the  three  intense  stars,  that  we  watch 'd   night 

by  night 
Burning  broad  on  the  band  of  Orion,  as  bright  ? 
Are  the  large  Indian  moons  as  serene  as  of  old. 
When,  as  children,  we  gather'd  the  moonbeams  foi 

gold  ? 
Do   you  yet   recollect   me,    my   friend  ?      Do   you 

still 
Remember  the  free  games  w^e  play'd  on  the  hill, 
'Mid  those  huge  stones  up-heap'd,  where  we  reck- 
lessly trod 
O'er  the  old  ruin'd  fane  of  the  old  ruined  god  ? 


.-^yi^r^ia^ 


1 60 


LUCILE. 


How  he  frown'd  while  around  him  we  carelessly 

play'd ! 
That  frown  on  my  life  ever  after  hath  stay'd, 
Like  the  shade  of  a  solemn  experience  upcast 
F'rom  some  vague  supernatural  grief  in  the  past. 
For   the  poor  god,   in  pain,  more  than   anger,  he 

frown'd, 
To  perceive  that  our  youth,  though  so   Heeling,  had 

found, 
In  its  transient  and  ignorant  gladness,  the  bliss 
Which  his  science  divine  seem'd  divinely  to  miss. 
Alas  !  you  may  haply  remember  me  yet 
The    free    child,  whose   glad    childhood    myself    I 

forget. 
I  come — a  sad  woman,  defrauded  of  rest  : 
I  bear  to  you  only  a  laboring  breast : 
My  heart  is  a  storm-beaten  ark,  wildly  hurl'd 
0"er  the  whirlpools  of   time,  with   the  wrecks  of  a 

world. 
The  dove  from  my  bosom  hath  flown  far  away : 
It    is    flown,    and    returns   not,    though    many   a 

day 
Have  I  watch'd   from  the  windows   of  life  for   its 

coming. 
Friend,  I  sigh  for  repose,  I  am  weary  of  roaming. 
1  know  not  what  Ararat  rises  for  me 
Far  away,  o'er  the  waves  of  the  wandering  sea  : 
I  know  not  what  rainbow  may  yet,  from  far  hills. 
Lift  the  promise  of  hope,  the  cessation  of  ills  : 
But  a    voice,  like  the  voice  of  my  youth,  in    my 

breast 


^-  A/;- 


r 


^. 


L  UCILE. 

Wakes  and  whispers  me  on — to   the  East  I  to   the 

East  I 
Shall   I   find   the  child's  heart  that   I  left  there  ?  or 

find 
The  lost  youth  I  recall  with  its  pure  peace  of  mind  ? 
Alas  !  who  shall  number  the  drops  of  the  rain  ? 
Or  give  to  the  dead  leaves  their  greenness  again  ? 
Who  shall  seal  up  the  caverns  the  earthquake  hath 

rent  ? 
Who  shall  bring  forth  the   winds  that  within  them 

are  pent  ? 
To  a  voice  who  shall  render  an  image  ?  or  who 
From  the  heats  of  the  noontide  shall  gather  the  dew  ? 
I  have  burn'd  out  within  me  the  fuel  of  life. 
Wherefore  lingers  the  flame  ?     Rest  is  sweet  after 

strife. 
1  would  sleep  for  a  while.     I  am  weary. 

"  My  friend, 
I  had  meant  in  these  lines  to  regather,  and  send 
To  our  old  home,  my  life's  scatter'd  links.    But  't  is 

vain  ! 
Each  attempt  seems  to  shatter  the  chaplet  again ; 
Only  fit  now  for  fingers  like  mine  to  run  o'er, 
Who  return,  a  recluse,  to  those  cloisters  of  yore 
Whence  too  far  I  have  wander'd. 

"  How  many  long  years 
Does  it  seem  to  me  now  since  the  quick,  scorching 

tears, 
While  I  wrote  to  you,  splash 'd   out  a  girl's   prema- 
ture 
Moans  of  pain  at  what  women  in  silence  endure  I 


^.^: 


,*£r 


162 


LUCILE. 


W^^ 


To  your  eyes,  friend  of  mine,  and  to  your  eyes  alone. 
That  now  long-faded  page  of  my  life  hath  been  shown 
Which  recorded  my  heart's  birth,  and  death,  as  you 

know, 
Many  years  since,— how  many  ! 

"  A  few  months  ago 
I  seem'd  reading   it  backward,  that   page  !     Why 

explain 
Whence  or  how?     The  old   dream  of  my  life  rose 

again. 
The  old  superstition  !  the  idol  of  old  ! 
It  is  over.     The  leaf  trodden  down  in  the  mould 
Is  not  to  the  forest  more  lost  than  to  me 
That  emotion.     I  bury  it  here  by  the  sea 
Which  will  bear  me  anon  far  away  from  the  shore 
Of  a  land  which  my  footsteps  shall  visit  no  more. 
And  a  heart's  requiescat  I  write  on  that  grave. 
Hark !  the  sigh  of  the  wind,  and  the  sound  of  the 

wave. 
Seem  like  voices  of  spirits  that  whisper  me  home  ! 
I  come,  O  you  whispering  voices,  I  come  ! 
My  friend,  ask  me  nothing. 

"  Receive  me  alone 
As  a  Santon  receives  to  his  dwelling  of  stone 
In  silence  some  pilgrim  the  midnight  may  bring  : 
It  may  be  an  angel  that,  weary  of  wing, 
Hath  paused  in  his  flight  from  some  city  of  doom. 
Or  only  a  wayfarer  stray'd  in  the  gloom. 
This  only  I  know  :  that  in  Europe  at  least 
Lives  the  craft  or  the  power  that  must  master  our 
East. 


W^  W~5^ 


LUCILE. 


103 


Wherefore  strive  where   the  gods  must  themselves 

yield  at  last  ? 
Both  they  and  their  altars  pass  by  with  the  Past. 
The  gods  of  the  household  Time  thrusts   from   the 

shelf ; 
And  I  seem  as  unreal  and  weird  to  myself 
As  those  idols  of  old. 

"  Other  times,  other  men. 
Other  men,  other  passions  ! 

"  So  be  it  !  yet  again 
I  turn  to  my  birthplace,  the  birthplace  of  morn. 
And  the  light  of  those  lands  where  the  great  sun  is 

born  ! 
Spread  your  arms,  O  my  friend  !  on   your  breast  let 

me  feel 
The  repose  which  hath  fled  from  my  own. 

"  Your  LuciLE." 


P/ 


^^-m 


~i^^ 


PART  II. 


« 


CANTO  I. 


Hail,  Muse  !     But  each  Muse  by  this  time  has.  1 

know, 
lieen  used  up,  and  Apollo,  has  bent  his  own  bow 
All  too  lonjif ;  so  I  leave  unassaulted  the  portal 
Of  Olympus,  and  only  invoke  here  a  mortal. 

Hail,    Murra\- ! — not     Lindley, — but     Murray     and 

Son. 
Hail,  omniscient,  beneficent,  great  Two-in-One  ! 
In  Albemarle  Street  may  thy  temple  long  stand  I 
Long  enlighten'd  and  led  by  thine  erudite  hand. 
May  each  novice  in  science  nomadic  unravel 
Statistical  mazes  of  modernized  travel  I 
Mav  each  inn-keeping  knave    long  thy  judgments 

revere. 
And  the  postboys  of  Europe  regard  thee  with  fear  ; 
While  they  feel,  in  the  silence  of  baffled  extortion. 
That    knowledge  is  power  !     Long,  long,  like  that 

portion 
Of  the  national  soil  which  the  Greek  exile  took 
In  his  baggage  wherever  he  went,  may  thy  book 


^ 

i 


'^-IL.J"^:  AiSZir 


L  UCILE. 


165 


"^ 


Cheer  each  poor  British  pilgrim,  who  trusts  to  thy 

wit 
Not  to  pay  through  his  nose  just  for  following  it  ! 
May'st  thou  long,  O  instructor  !  preside  o'er  his  way. 
And  teach  him  alike  what  to  praise  and  to  pay  I 
Thee,  pursuing  this  pathway  of  song,  once  again 
I  invoke,  lest,  unskill'd,  I  should  v/ander  in  vain. 
To  my  call  be  propitious,  nor,  churlish,  refuse 
Thy  great  accents  to  lend  to  the  li[xs  of  my  Muse  ; 
For  I  sing  of  the  Naiads  who  dwell  "mid  the  stems 
Of  the  green  linden-trees  by  the  waters  of  Ems. 
Yes !  thy  spirit  descends  upon  mine,  O  John   Mur- 
ray ! 
And    I  start — with  thy  book — for  the  Baths  in   a 
hurry. 


■■vv 


"  At  Coblentz  a  bridge  of  boats  crosses  the  Rhine. 
And  from  thence  the  road,  winding  by  Ehrenbreit- 

stein. 
Passes  over  the  frontier  of  Nassau. 

(•'  N.  B. 
No  custom-house  here  since  the  Zollverein."     See 
Murray,  paragraph  30.1 

"  The  route,  at  each  turn. 
Here  the  lover  of  nature  allows  to  discern. 
In  varving  prospect,  a  rich  wooded  dale : 
The  \  ine  and  acacia-tree  mostly  prevail 
In  the  foliage  observable  here  ;  and,  moreover. 
The  soil  is  carbonic.     The  road,  under  cover 
Of   the  grape-clad  and  mountainous   upland    that 

hems 


i66 


L  UCILE. 


Ri)un(l  this  beautiful  spot,  brings  the  traveller  to — 

"EMS. 
A  Schnellpost  from  Frankfort  arrives  every  day. 
At  the  Kurhaus  (the  old  Ducal  mansion)  you  jniy 
Plight  florins  for  lodgings.     A  Restaurateur 
Is  attach'd  to  the  place  ;  but  most  travellers  prefer 
(Including,  indeed,  many  persons  of  note) 
To  dine  at  the  usual-priced  table  d'hote. 
Through  the  town  runs  the  Lahn.  the  steep  green 

banks  of  which 
Two  rows  of  white  picturesque  houses  enrich  ; 
And  between  the  high  road  and  the  river  is  laid 
Out  a  sort  of  a  garden,  call'd  •  Thk  Promenade.' 
Female  visitors  here,  who  may  make  up  their  mind 
To  ascend  to  the  top  of  these  mountains,  will   find 
On  the    banks  of   the   stream,  saddled    all  the   day 

long. 
Troops     of     donkeys  —  sure-footed  —  proverbially 

strong  ,  " 
And  the  traveller  at  Ems  may  remark,  as  he  passes. 
Here,  as  elsewhere,  the  women  run  after  the  asses. 


ll 


W 


'.Mid  the  world's  weary  denizens    bound    for   these 

springs 
In  the  month  when  the  merle  on  the  maple-bough 

sings, 
I'lirsued  to  the  place  from  dissimilar  paths 
liy  a  similar  sickness,  there  came  to  the  baths 
Four    sufferers — each    stricken    dee])    through    the 

heart, 


L  UCILE. 


167 


Or  the  head,  by  the  selfsame  invisible  dart 
Of  the  arrow  that  flieth  unheard  in  the  noon, 
From  the  sickness  that  walketh  unseen  in  the  moon, 
Through  this  great  lazaretto  of  life,  wherein  each 
Infects  with  his  own  sores  the  next  within  reach. 
First  of  these  were  a  young   English  husband  and 

wife. 
Grown  weary  ere  half  through   the  journey  of  life. 
O  Nature,  say  where,  thou  gray  mother  of  earth, 
Is  the  strength  of  thy  youth  ?  that  thy  womb  brings 

to  birth 
Only  old  men  to-day !     On  the  winds,  as  of  old. 
Thy  voice  in  its  accent  is  joyous  and  bold  ; 
Thy  forests  are  green  as  of  yore  ;  and  thine  oceans 
Yet  move  in  the  might  of  their  ancient  emotions  : 
But  man— thy  last  birth  and  thy  best— is    no    more 
Life's  free  lord,  that    look'd  up    to  the    starlight    of 

vore. 
With  the  faith  on  the  brow,  and  the  tire  in  the  eyes. 
The  firm  foot  on  the  earth,  the  high  heart    in    the 

skies  ; 
But  a  gray-headed  infant,  defrauded  of  \outh. 
Born  too  late  or  too  early. 

The  lady,  in  truth, 
Was  young,  fair,  and  gentle  ;  and  never  was  given 
To  more  heavenly  eyes  the  pure  azure  of  heaven. 
Never  yet  did  the  sun  touch  to  ripples  of  gold 
Tresses   brighter  than   those  which  her  soft   hand 

unroll'd 
From  her  noble  and  innocent  brow,  when  she  rose, 
An  Aurora,  at  dawn,  from  her  balmy  repose. 


j^rasixs£i_  _z::r? 


i68 


LUCILE. 


And  into  the  mirror  the  bloom  and  the  blush 

Of  her  beauty  broke,  glowing  ;  like  light  in  a  gush 

From  the  sunrise  in  summer. 

Love,  roaming,  shall  meet 
But  rarely  a  nature  more  sound  or  more  sweet — 
Eyes  brighter — brows  whiter — a  figure  more  fair — 
Or  lovelier  lengths  of  more  radiant  hair — 
Than  thine.  Lady  Alfred  !     And  here  I  aver 
(May  those  that  have  seen  thee  declare  if  I  em 
That  not  all  the  oysters  in  Britain  contain 
A  pearl  pure  as  thou  art. 

Let  some  one  explain, — 
Who  may  know  more  than  I  of  the  intimate  life 
Of  the  pearl  with  the  oyster, — why  yet  in   his  wife, 
In  despite  of  her  beauty — and  most  when  he  felt 
His  soul  to  the  sense  of  her  loveliness  melt — 
Lord  Alfred  miss'd  something  he  sought  for  :  in- 
deed, 
The  more  that  he  miss'd  it  the  greater  the  need  ; 
Till  it  seem'd  to  himself  he  could  willingly  spare 
All  the  charms  that  he  found  for  the  one  chaiin  not 
there. 

IV. 

For  the  blessings  Life  lends  us,  it  strictly  demands 
'{"he  worth  of  their  full  usufruct  at  our  hands. 
And  the  value  of  all  things  exists,  not  indeed 
In  themselves  but  man's  use  of  them,  feeding  man's 

need. 
Alfred  \'argra\'e,  in  wedding  with  beauty  and  youth, 
I  lad  enil)i'aci-(l  both  vVmbilion  and  Wealth.      \'et  in 

truth 


;>^. 


^s^:..-. 


LUCILE. 


169 


i 


UnfulfiU'd  the  ambition,  and  sterile  the  wealth 

(In  a  life  paralyzed  by  a  moral  ill-health), 

Had  remain'd,  while  the   beauty  and  youth,  unie- 

deem'd 
From   a  vague   disappointment    at   all  things,   but 

seem'd 
Day  by  day  to  reproach  him  in  silence  for  all 
That  lost  youth  in  himself  they  had  fail'd  to  recall. 
No  career  had  he  foUow'd,  no  object  obtain'd 
In  the  world  by  those  worldly  advantages  gain'd 
From  nuptials  beyond  which  once  seem'd  to  appear. 
Lit  by  love,  the  broad  path  of  a  brilliant  career. 
All  that  glitter'd  and  gleam'd   through  the   moon- 
light of  youth 
With  a  glory  so  fair,  now  that  manhood  in  truth     . 
Grasp'd  and  gather'd  it,  seem'd  like  that  false  fairy 

gold 
Which  leaves  in  the  hand   only   moss,   leaves,   and 
mould  ! 

V. 

Fairy  gold  !  moss  and  leaves  !  and  the  young  Fairy 

Bride  ? 
Lived  there  yet  fairy-lands  in  the   face  at  his   side  ? 
Say.  O  friend,  if  at  evening  thou  ever  hast  watch 'd 
Some  pale  and  impalpable  vapor,  detach'd 
From  the  dim  and  disconsolate  earth,  rise  and  fall 
O'er  the  light  of  a  sweet  serene  star,  until  all 
The  chill'd  splendor  reluctantly  waned  in  the  deep 
Of  its  own  native  heaven  }     Even  so  seem'd  to  creep 
O'er  that  fair  and  ethereal  face,  day  by  day, 
Wiiile  the  radiant  vermeil,  subsiding  away, 


^^X  (/H' 


I' 


L  i'CILE. 


ibi 


Hid  its  light  in  the  heart,  the  faint  gradual  veil 
(if  a  sadness  unconscious. 

The  lady  grew  pale 
As  silent  her  lord  grew  :  and  both,  as  they  eyed 
Each  the  other  askance,  turn'd,  and  secretly  sigh'd. 
Ah,  wise  friend,  what  avails  all  experience  can  give? 
True,  we  know  what  life  is — but,  alas  !  do  we  live  ? 
The  grammar  of  life  we  have  gotten  by  heart, 
But  life's  self  we  have  made  a  dead  language^an 

art, 
Not  a  voice.     Could  we  speak  it,  hut  once,  as  't  was 

s]5oken 
When    the  silence    of   passion   the    first    time    was 

broken  ! 
Cuvier  knew  the  world  better  than  Adam,  no  doubt  : 
Hut  the  last  man,  at  best,  was  but  learned  about 
What  the   first,  without  learning,  enjoy  d.     What 

art  thou 
To  the  man  of  to-day,  O  Leviathan,  now  .•' 
A  science.     What  wert  thou  to  him  that  from  ocean 
First  beheld  thee  appear  ?  A  surprise, — an  emotion  I 
When  life  leaps  in   the  veins,  when   it   beats  in  the 

heart, 
\\  luii  it  thrills  as  it  fills  every  animate  ])art, 
Where  lurks  it  ?  how   works  it  ?  .   .   .  we    scarcely 

detect  it. 
liul  li'fe  goes  :  the  heart  dies  :    haste,  O   leech,   and 

dissect  it  ! 
'I'his  accursed  assthetical,  ethical  age 
Ilalh  so  finger'd   life's   hornbook,   so   blurr'd  ever)' 


"4 


LUCILE. 


lyr 


That  the  old  glad  romance,  the  gay  chivalrous  storv 

With  its  fables  of  faery,  its  legends  of  glorj-, 

Is  turn'd  to  a  tedious  instruction,  not  new 

To  the  children  that  read  it  insipidly  through. 

We  know  too  much  of  Love  ere  we  love.     We  can 

trace 
Nothing  new,  unexpected,  or  strange  in  his  face 
When  we  see  it  at  last.     'T  is  the  same  little  Cupid, 
With  the  same  dimpled  cheek,  and  the  smile  almost 

stupid. 
We  have   seen   in   our  pictures,  and   stuck  on   our 

shelves, 
And  copied  a  hundred  times  over,  ourselves. 
And  wherever  we  turn,  and  whatever  we  do. 
Still,  that  horrible  sense  of  the  dqa  coiinu  .' 


r, 


VI. 


Perchance  't  was  the  fault  of  the  life  that  they  led  ; 
Perchance  't  was  the  fault  of  the  novels  they  read  ; 
Perchance 't  was  a  fault   in  themselves;  I  am  bound 

not 
To  sav  :  this  I  know — that  these  two  creatures  found 

not 
In  each  other  some  sign  they  expected  to  find 
Of  a  something  unnamed  in  the  heart  or  the  mind  |j 
And,  missing  it,  each  felt  a  right  to  complain 
Of  a  sadness  which  each  found  no  word  to  explain. 
Whatever  it  was,  the  world  noticed  not  it 
In  the  light-hearted  beauty,  the  light-hearted  wit. 
Still,  as   once  with  the  actors  in  Greece,   't  is  the 


-^m: 


172 


L  UCILE. 


Each  must  speak  to  the  crown  with  a  mask  on  his 

face. 
Praise  followed  Matilda  wherever  she  went. 
She  was  flatter'd.     Can  flattery  purchase  content  ? 
Yes.     While  to  its  voice,  for  a  moment,  she  listen'd, 
The  voung  cheek  still  bloom'd,  and  the  soft  eyes 

still  glisten'd  ; 
And  her  lord,  when,  like  one  of  those  light  vivid 

things 
That  glide  down  the  gauzes  of  summer  with  wings 
Of  rapturous  radiance,  unconscious  she  moved 
Through    that    buzz    of    inferior    creatures,   whicli 

proved 
Her  beautv,  their  envy,  one  moment  forgot 
'Mid  the  many  charms  there,  the  one  charm  that 

was  not : 
And  when  o'er  her  beauty  enraptured  he  bow'd, 
(As  they   turn'd  to   each   other,  each   fiush'd  from 

the  crowd,) 
And   murmur'd     those    praises   which    yet    seem'd 

more  dear 
Than  the  praises  of  others  had  grown  to  her  ear. 
She,  too,  ceased  awhile  her  own  fate  to  regret  : 
"  Yes  !  ...  he  loves  rpe,"  she  sigh'd  ;  "  this  is  love, 

then — and    vet — .'  " 


Mi 


I 


.^^ 


.\h,  \\\-AKyct !  fatal  word  I  "t  is  the  moral  of  all 
Thought  and  felt,  seen  or  done,  in  this  world  since 

the  Fall ! 
h  stands  at  the  end  of  each  sentence  we  learn 


It  flits  in  the  vista  of  all  we  discern  ; 

It  leads  us,  forever  and  ever,  away 

To  find  in  to-morrow  what  flies  with  to-day. 

'T  was  this  same  little  fatal  and  mystical  word 

That  now,  like  a  mirage,  led  my  lady  and  lord 

To  the  waters  of  Ems  from  the  waters  of  Marah  ; 

Drooping  pilgrims  in  Fashion's  blank,  arid  Sahara ! 

VIII. 
At  the   same  time,   pursued   by  a  spell   much    the 

same, 
To   these   waters   two   other   worn    pilgrims  there 

came  : 
One  a  man,  one  a  woman  :  just  now,  at  the  latter. 
As  the  Reader  I  mean  by  and  by  to  look  at  her 
And  judge  for  himself,  I  will  not  even  glance. 

/  IX.  '  " 

Of  the  self-crown'd  young  kings  of  the   Fashion  in 

France 
Whose  resplendent  regalia  so  dazzled  the  sight. 
Whose  horse  was  so  perfect,  whose  boots  were  so 

bright, 
Who  so  hailed  in  the  salon,  so  marked  in  the  Bois, 
Who  so  welcomed  by  all,  as  Eugene  de  Luvois  ? 
Of  all  the  smooth-brow'd  premature  debauchees 
In  that  town  of  all  towns,  where  Debauchery  sees 
On   the    forehead    of   youth    her    mark   everwhere 

graven, — 
In  Paris  I  mean, — where  the  streets  are  all  paven 
By  those  two    fiends  whom    Milton   saw  bridging 

the  way 


''^^ 


/T^  -''f^^^PtW* 


174 


LUCILE. 


From  Hell  to  this  planet,— who,  haughty  and  gay, 
The  free  rebel  of  life,  bound  or  led  by  no  law, 
Walk'd  that  causeway  as  bold  as  Eugene  de  Luvois  ? 
Yes  I     he  march'd  through  the  great  masquerade, 

loud  of  tongue, 
Bold  of  brow  :  but  the  motley  he  mask'd  in,  it  hung 
So  loose,  trail'd  so  wide,  and  appear'd  to  impede 
So  strangely  at  times  the  vex'd  effort  at  speed. 
That  a  keen  eye  might  guess  it  was  made — not  for 

him. 
But  some  brawler  m.ore  stalwart  of  stature  and  limb. 
That  it  irk'd  him,  in  truth,  you  at  times  could  divine, 
For  when  low  was  the    music,  and   spilt  was  the 

wine, 
He  would   clutch  at   the  garment,  as  though  it  oj)- 

press'd 
And  stifled  some  imi)ulse  that  choked  in  iiis  breast. 


What  I      he,   .   .   .  the   light   sport    of   liis    frivolous 

ease  I 
Was  he,  too,  a  ])rey  to  a  mortal  disease  ? 
Mv  friend,  hear  a  parable  :  ponder  it  well  : 
For  a  moral  there  is  in  the  tale  that  I  tell. 
One  evening  I  .sat  in  the  Palais  Royal, 
And  there,  while  I  laugh'd  at  Grassot  and  Arnal, 
My  eye  fell  on  the  face  of  a  man  at  my  side  ; 
Every   time    that   he    laugh'd    1   observed    that   lie 

sigh'd. 
As  though  vex'd  to  be  pleased.     I  remark'd  that  he 

sat 


L  UCILE. 


175 


111  at  ease  on  his  seat,  and  kept  twirling  his  hat 
la  his  hand,  with  a  look  of  unquiet  abstraction. 
I  inquired  the  cause  of  his  dissatisfaction. 
'■  .Sir,"  he  said,   "  if  what   vexes  me  here  you   would 

know. 
Learn   that,  passing  this  way  some  few  half-hours 

ago, 
1  walk'd  into  the  Frangais,  to  look  at  Rachel. 
(Sir,  that  woman  in  Phklre  is  a  miracle!) — Well, 
I  ask'd  for  a  bo.x  :  they  were  occupied    all : 
For  a  seat  in  the  balcony  :  all  taken  I  a  stall  : 
Taken  too  :  the   whole  house  was  as  full  as  could 

be,— 
Not  a  hole  for  a  rat  I  I  had  just  time  to  see 
The  lady  I  love  tctc-a-tctc-  with  a  friend 
In  a  box  out  of  reach  at  the  opposite  end  : 
Then  the  crowd    push'd  me  out.       What    was  left 

me  to  do  ? 
I  tried  for  the  tragedy  .  .  .  que  voulcz-vous  ? 
Every  place  for  the  tragedy  book'd  !  .  .  .  mon  ami. 
The  farce  was  close  by  :  ...  at  the  farce  mc  void  ! 
The  piece  is  a  new  one  :  and  Grassot  plays  well : 
There  is  drollery,  too,  in  that  fellow  Ravel  : 
And  Hyacinth's  nose  is  superb  !  .  .   .  Yet  I  meant 
My  evening  elsewhere,  and  not  thus,  to  have  spent. 
Fate  orders  these  things  by  her  will,  not  by  ours  ! 
Sir,  mankind  is  the  sport  of  invisible  powers." 
I  once  met  the  Due  de  Luvois  for  a  moment ; 
And  I  mark'd,  when  his  features  I  fix'd  in  my  com- 
ment. 
O'er  those  features  the  same  vague  disquietude  stray 


/W''- 


>*t 


176 


LUCILE. 


[  had  seen  on  the  face  of  my  friend  at  tlie  play  ; 
And  I  thought  that  he  too,  very  probably,  spent 
His  evenings  not  wholly  as  first  he  had  meant. 

XI. 

( )  source  of  the  holiest  joys  we  inherit. 

O  Sorrow,  thou  solemn,  invisible  spirit  I 

111    fares  it  with  man  when,  through  life's    desert 

sand. 
Grown   impatient  too  soon  for  the  long  promised 

land. 
Me  turns  from  the  worship  of  thee,  as  thou  art. 
An  expressless  and  imageless  truth  in  the  heart. 
And  takes  of  the  jewels  of  Egypt,  the  pelf 
And  the  gold  of  the  Godless,  to  make  to  himself 
A  gaudy,  idolatrous  image  of  thee, 
Antl   then  bows  to  the   sound  of    the  cymbal   the 

knee. 
The  sorrows  we  make  to  ourselves  are  false  gods  : 
Like  the  prophets  of  Baal,  our  bosoms  with  rods 
We  may  smite,  we  may  gash  at  our  hearts  till  they 

bleed. 
Hut  these  idols  are  blind,   deaf,   and  duml)  to  our 

need. 
Tlie  land  is  athirst,  and  cries  out  !  .  .  .   't  is  in  vain  ; 
The  great  blessing  of  Heaven  descends  not  in  rain. 

XII. 
It   was  night;    and  the    lamps  were  beginning  to 

gleam 
Tlirough    the  long  linden-trees,  folded  each  in   his 
dream. 


{ 


r 


% 


Z  UCILE. 

From  that  building  which  looks  like  a  temple  .  .   . 

and  is 
The  temple  of — Health?     Nay,  but  enter  !     I  wis 
That  never  the  rosy-hued  deity  knew 
One  votary  out  of  that  sallow-cheek'd  crew 
Of  Courlanders,  Wallacs,  Greeks,  affable  Russians, 
Explosive  Parisians,  potato-faced  Prussians  ; 
Jews — Hamburghers  chiefly  ; — pure  patriots, — Sua- 

bians  ; — 
"  Cappadocians  and  Elamites,  Cretes  and  Arabians, 
And  the  dwellers  in  Pontus  "...  My  muse  will 

not  weary 
More    lines    with    the    list  of   them  .   .  .  cur  fre- 

imicre  ? 
What  is  it  they  murmur,  and  mutter,  and  hum  } 
Into  what  Pandemonium  is  Pentecost  come  1 
Oh,  what  is  the  name  of  the  god  at  whose  fane 
Every  nation  is  mix'd  in  so  motley  a  train  ? 
What  weird  Kabala  lies  on  those  tables  outspread  ? 
To  what  oracle  turns  with  attention  each  head  ? 
What  holds  these  pale  worshippers  each  so  devout, 
And  what  are  those  hierophants  busied  about  ? 

XIII. 
Here  passes,  repasses,  and  flits  to  and  fro. 
And  rolls  without  ceasing  the  great  Yes  and  No  : 
Round  this  altar  alternate  the  weird  Passions  dance, 
And  the  God  worshipp'd  here  is  the  old  God  of 

Chance. 
Through  the  wide-open  doors  of  the  distant  saloon 
Flute,  hautboy,  and  fiddle  are  squeaking  in  tune ; 


^ 


■■    .    — 1 


"^ZeSfi- 


178 


LUCILE. 


And  an  indistinct  music  forever  is  roU'd, 

That  mixes  and  chimes  with  the  chink  of  the  gold, 

From  a  vision,  that  flits  in  a  luminous  haze. 

Of  figures  forever  eluding  the  gaze  ; 

It    fleets    through    the  doorway,  it  gleams  on  the 
glass. 

And  the  weird  words  pursue   it — Rouge,  Impair, 
I't  Passe  ! 

Like  a  sound  borne  in  sleep  through   such   dreams 
as  encumber 

With  haggard  emotions  the  wild  wicked  slumber 

Of  some  witch   when   she   seeks,  through  a  night- 
mare, to  grab  at 

The  hot  hoof  of  the  fiend,  on  her  way  to  the  Sab- 
bat. 

XIV. 

The  Due  de  Luvois  and  Lord  Alfred  had  met 
Some  few  evenings  ago  (for  the  season  as  yet 
Was    but    young)     in    this    selfsame    Pavilion    of 

Chance. 
The  idler  from  England,  the  idler  from  France 
Shook  hands,  each,  of  course,  with  much   cordial 

pleasure  : 
An  acquaintance  at  Ems  is  to  most  men  a  treasure, 
And  they  both  were  too  well-bred  in  aught  to  W- 

tray 
One  discourteous    remembrance    of   things    pass'd 

away. 
'T  was  a  sight  that  was  pleasant,  indeed,  to  be  .seen. 
These  friends  exchange  greetings; — the  men  who 

had  been 


^ 


L  UCILE. 


179 


Foes  so  nearly  in  days  that  were  past. 

This,  no  doubt. 
Is  why,  on  the  night  I  am  speaking  about. 
My  Lord  Alfred  sat  down  by  himself  at  roulette, 
Without  one  suspicion  his  bosom  to  fret. 
Although  he    had  left,  with    his    pleasant   French 

friend, 
Matilda,  half  vex'd,  at  the  room's  farthest  end. 


XV. 

Lord  Alfred  his  combat  with  Fortune  began 
With  a  few  modest  thalers — away  they  all  ran — 
The  reserve  follow'd  fast  in  the  rear.     As  his  purse 
Cirew  lighter  his  spirits  grew  sensibly  worse. 
One  needs  not  a  Bacon  to  find  a  cause  for  it : 
'T  is  an  old  law  in  physics — Natw-a  abhorret 
Vacuum  —  and    my  lord,  as    he  watch'd    his   last 

crown 
Tumble  into  the  bank,  turn"d  away  with  a  frown 
Which  the  brows  of  Napoleon  himself  might  have 

deck'd 
On  that    day  of   all  days    when    an     empire    was 

wreck'd 
On  thy  plain,  Waterloo,  and  he  witness'd  the  last 
Of  his  favorite  Guard  cut  to  pieces,  aghast ! 
Just  then  Alfred  felt,  he  could  scarcely  tell  why. 
Within  him  the  sudden    strange  sense  that  some 

eye 
Had  long  been  intently  regarding  him  there, — 
That  some  gaze  was  upon   him   too   searching  to 

bear. 


I  So 


LUCILE. 


He  rose    and    look'd    up.     Was    it    fact?     Was  it 

fable  ? 
Was  it  dream  ?  Was  it  waking?    Across  the  green 

table, 
That  face,  with  its  features  so  fatally  known — 
Those  eyes,  whose  deep  gaze  answer'd  strangely 

his  own — 
What  was   it  ?     Some  ghost   from  its  grave   come 

again  ? 
Some  cheat  of  a  feverish,  fanciful  brain  ? 
Or  was  it  herself — with  those  deep  eyes  of  hers. 
And  that  face  unforgotten  ? — Lucile  de  Nevers  ! 


Ah,  well  that  pale  woman  a  phantom  might  seem, 
Who  appear'd  to  herself  but  the  dream  of  a  dream  ! 
'Neath  those  features  so  calm,  that  fair  forehead  so 

hush'd, 
That  pale  cheek  forever  by  passion  unflush'd, 
There  yawn'd  an  insatiate  void,  and  there  heaved 
A  tumult  of  restless  regrets  unrelieved. 
The  brief  noon  of  beauty  was  passing  away, 
And  the  chill  of  the  twilight  fell,  silent  and  gray, 
O'er  that  deep,  self-perceived  isolation  of  soul. 
And  now,  as  all  round  her  the  dim  evening  stole. 
With  its  weird  desolations,  she  inwardly  grieved 
For  the  want  of  that  tender  assurance  received 
From  the   warmth  of  a  whisper,   the  glance  of  an 

eye, 
Which  should   say,  or   should   look,    "  Fear    thou 

naught — /  am  by  !" 


> 
£. 


L  UCILE. 


i8i 


And    thus,  through    that    lonely  and  self-fix'd    ex- 
istence, 
Crept    a  vague    sense    of   silence,  and   horror,   and 

distance  : 
A  strange  sort  of  faint-footed  fear,- -like  a  mouse 
That  comes  out,  when  't  is  dark,  in  some  old  ducal 

house 
Long  deserted,  where  no  one  the  creature  can  scare, 
And  the  forms  on  the  arras  are  all  that  move  there. 
In  Rome, — in  the  Forum, — there  open'd  one  night 
A  gulf.     All  the  augurs  turn'd  pale  at  the  sight. 
In  this  omen  the  anger  of  Heaven  they  read. 
Men  consulted  the  gods  :  then  the  oracle  said  : — 
"  Ever  open  this  gulf  shall  endure,  till  at  last 
That  which   Rome    hath   most    precious  within   it 

be  cast." 
The  Romans  threw  in  it  their  corn  and  their  stuff, 
But  the  gulf  yawn'd  as  wide.     Rome  seem'd  likely 

enough 
To    be  ruin'd   ere  this  rent  in  her  heart  she  could 

choke. 
Then  Curtius,  revering  the  oracle,  spoke  : 
"  O  Ouirites  !  to  this  Heaven's  question  is  come  : 
What  to  Rome  is  most  precious  ?     The  manhood 

of  Rome." 
He  plunged,  and  the  gulf  closed. 

The  tale  is  not  new  ; 
But  the  moral  applies  many  ways,  and  is  true. 
How,  for  hearts  rent  in  twain,  shall  the  curse  be 

destroy'd .'' 
'T  is  a  warm  human  life  that  must  fill  up  the  void. 


^ 


I 


^ 


z-:"^:^^. 


..^ 


i8: 


L  UCILE. 


Thorough  many  a  heart  runs  the  rent  in  the  fable ; 
But  who  to  discover  a  Curtius  is  able  ? 

XVII. 
Hack  she   canit-  from   her  long-  hiding-place,  at  the 

source 
Of  the  sunrise  ;  where,  fair  in  their  fabulous  course. 
Kun  the  rivers  of  Eden  :  an  exile  again, 
To  the  cities  of  Europe — the  scenes,  and  the  men. 
And  the  life,  and  the  ways,  she  had  left :  still  op- 

press'd 
With    the    same    hungry    heart,    and    unpeaceable 

breast. 
The  same,  to  the  same  things  !    The  world,  she  had 

quitted 
With  a  sigh,  with  a  sigh  she  re-enter'd.    Soon  flitted 
Through  the  salons  and  clubs,  to  the  great  satis- 
faction 
Of  Paris,  the  news  of  a  novel  attraction. 
The    enchanting    Lucile.  the    gay  Countess,  once 

more 
To  her  old   friend,  the  World,   had    re-open'd    her 

door  ; 
The  World  came,  and  shook  hands,  and  was  pleased 

and  amused 
With  what  the  World  then  went  away  and   abused. 
Kroni   the   woman's   fair  fame   it   in   naught   could 

detract : 
■'1'  was  the  woman's  free  genius  it   vex'd  and  at- 

tack'd 
With  a  sneer  at  her  freedom  of  action  and  speech. 


r^S^-v- 


L  UCILE. 


183 


But  its  light  careless  cavils,  in  truth,  could  not  reach 
The  lone  heart  they  aim'd  at.     Her  tears  fell  be- 
yond 
The  world's  limit,  to  feel  that  the  world  could  re- 
spond 
To    that    heart's    deepest,  innermost   yearning,    in 

naught, 
"r    was    no    longer  this    earth's   idle    inmates    she 

sought : 
The  wit  of  the  woman  sufficed  to  engage 
In  the  woman's  gay  court  the  first  men  of  the  age. 
Some  had  genius  ;  and  all,  wealth  of  mind  to  confer 
(^n  the  world  :  but  that  wealth  was  not  lavish'd  for 

her. 
For  the  genius  of  man,  though  so  human  indeed. 
When  call'd  out  to  man's  help  by  some  great  hu- 
man need, 
The  right  to  a  man's  chance  acquaintance  refuses 
To  use  what  it  hoards  for  mankind's  nobler  uses. 
Genius  touches  the  world  at  but  one  point  alone 
Of  that  spacious  circumference,  never  quite  known 
To  the  world  :  all  the  infinite  number  of  lines 
That  radiate  thither  a  mere  point  combines, 
But  one  onlv, — some  central  affection  apart 
From  the  reach  of  the  world,  in  which  Genius  is 

Heart. 
And  love,  life's  fine  centre,  includes  heart  and  mind. 
And  therefore  it  was  that  Lucile  sigh'd  to  find 
Men  of  genius  appear,  one  and  all  in  her  ken. 
When  thev  stoop'd  themselves  to  it,  as  mere  clever 
men  ; 


i 


rm 


184  LUCILE. 

Artists,  statesmen,  and    they  in    whose   works    are 

unfurl'd 
Worlds  new-fashion'd  for  man,  as  mere  men  of  the 

world. 
And  so,  as  alone  now  she  stood,  in  the  sight 
Of  the  sunset  of  youth,  with  her  face  from  the  light. 
And  watch'd    her  own  shadow  grow   long   at  her 

feet, 
As  though  stretch'd  out,  the  shade  of  some  other 

to  meet, 
The  woman  felt  homeless  and  childless  :  in  scorn 
She  seem'd  mock'd  by  the  voices  of  children  unborn  ; 
And  when  from  these  sombre  reflections  away 
She  turn'd,  with  a  sigh,  to  that  gay  world,  more  gay 
For  her  presence  within  it,  she  knew  herself  friend- 
less ; 
That  her  path  led   from  peace,  and  that  path  ap- 

pear'd  endless : 
That  even  her  beauty  had  been  but  a  snare. 
And  her  wit  sharpen'd  only  the  edge  of  despair. 


'^ 


% 


XVIII. 

With  a  face  all  transfigured  and  flush'd  by  surprise 
Alfred  turn'd  to  Lucile.     With  those  deep  search- 
ing eyes 
She  look'd  into  his  own.    Not  a  word  that  she  sale!. 
Not  a  look,  not  a  blush,  one  emotion  betray'd. 
She  seem'd  to  smile  through  him.  at  something 

beyond  : 
When  she  answer'd  his  questions,  she  seem'd  to 
respond 


LUCILE. 


185 


To  some  voice  in  herself.  With  no  trouble  descried, 
To  each  troubled  inquiry  she  calmly  replied. 
Not  so  he.     At  the  sight  of  that  face  back  again 
To  his  mind  came  the  ghost  of  a  long-stifled  pain, 
A  remember'd  resentment,  half  check'd  by  a  wild 
And  relentful  regret  like  a  motherless  child 
Softly  seeking  admittance,  with  plaintive  appeal, 
To  the  heart  which  resisted  its  entrance. 

Lucile 
And  himself  thus,  however,  with  freedom  allow'd 
To  old  friends,  talking   still   side   by   side,  left  the 

crowd 
By  the  crowd  unobserved.  Not  unnoticed,  however, 
By  the  Duke  and  Matilda.     Matilda  had  never 
Seen  her  husband's  new  friend. 

She  had  follow'd  by  chance. 
Or  by  instinct,  the  sudden  half-menacing  glance 
Which  the  Duke,  when  he  witness'd  their  meeting, 

had  turn'd 
On  Lucile  and  Lord   Alfred ;  and,  scared,  she  dis- 

cern'd 
On  his  feature  the  shade  of  a  gloom  so  profound 
That    she    shudder'd    instinctively.      Deaf  to   the 

sound 
Of  her  voice,  to  some  startled  inquiry  of  hers 
He  replied  not,  but  murmur'd,  "  Lucile  de  Nevers 
Once  again  then.>  so  be  it !"     In  the  mind  of  that 

man. 
At   that  moment,  there  shaped  itself  vaguely  the 

plan 
Of  a  purpose  malignant  and  dark,  such  alone 


«^''-.42'; 


Wt£^-' 


fe'. 


f 


■•*.' 


% 


i8f. 


L  UCfLE. 


(To  his  own  secret  heart  but  imperfectly  shown) 
As  could  spring-  from  the  cloudy,  fierce  chaos  of 

thought 
By  which  all  his  nature  to  tumult  was  wrought. 

XIX. 

"  So  !"  he  thought,  "  they  meet  thus  :  and  reweave 

the  old  charm  ! 
And  she   hangs  on    his  voice,  and  she  leans  on  his 

arm. 
And  she  heeds  me  not,  seeks  me  not,  recks  not  of 

me  ! 
Oh,  what  if  1  show'd  her  that  I,  too,  can  be 
Loved  by  one — iier  own  rival — more  fair  and  more 

young  ?" 
The  serpent  rose  in  him  :  a  serpent  which,  stung. 
Sought  to  sting. 

Each  unconscious,  indeed,  of  the  eye 
Fix'd  upon  them,  Lucile  and  my  lord  saunter'd  by. 
In  converse  which  seem'd  to  be  earnest.     A  smile 
Now  and  then  seem'd  to  show  where  their  thoughts 

touch'd.     Meanwhile 
The  muse  of  this  story,  convinced  that  they  need 

her. 
To  the  Duke  and  Matilda  returns,  gentle  Reader. 

XX. 

The  Duke,  with  that  sort  of  aggressive  false    praise 
Which  is  meant  a  resentful  remonstrance  to  raise 
I'Vom  a  listener  (as  sometimes  a  judge,  just  before 
Me  pulls  down    the  black    cap,  very  gently    goes 
o'er 


LUCILE. 


187 


The  case  for  the  prisoner,  and  deals  tenderly 
With  the  man  he  is  minded  to  hang  by  and  by), 
Had  referr'd  to  Luoile,  and  then  stopp'd  to  detect 
In  the  face  of  Matilda  the  growing  effect 
Of  the  words  he  had  dropp'd.     There's  no  weapon 

that  slays 
Its  victim  so  surely  (if  well  aim'd)  as  praise. 
Thus,  a  pause  on  their  converse   had  fallen  :  and 

now 
Each  was  silent,  preoccupied,  thoughtful. 

You  know 
There   are   moments   when  silence,  prolong'd  and 

unbroken, 
More    expressive    may    be   than    all    words    ever 

spoken. 
It  is  when  the  heart  has  an  instinct  of  what 
In  the  heart  of  another  is  passing.     And  that 
fn   the  heart   of   Matilda,   what  was  it  ?     Whence 

came 
To  her  cheek  on  a  sudden  that  tremulous  flame  ? 
What  weighed  down  her  head  ? 

All  your  eye  could  discover 
Was  the  fact  that  Matilda  was  troubled.     Moreover 
That  trouble  the  Duke's  presence  seem'd  to  renew. 
She,  however,  broke  silence,  the  first  of  the  two. 
The  Duke  was  too  prudent  to  shatter  the  spell 
Of  a  silence  which  suited  his  purpose  so  well. 
She  was  plucking  the  leaves  from  a  pale  blush  rose 

blossom 
Which  had  fall'n  from  the  nosegay  she  wore  in  her 
bosom. 


^ 


I 


i83 


L  UCILE. 


"  This  poor  flower,"  she  said,  "  seems  it  not  out  of 

place 
In    this    hot,    lamplit   air,    with   its    fresh,    fragile 

grace  ?" 
She  bent  her  head  low  as  she  spoke.     With  a  smile 
The  Duke  watch'd  her  caressing  the  leaves  all  the 

while, 
And  continued  on  his  side  the  silence.     He  knew 
This  would  force  his  companion   their  talk  to  re- 
new 
At  the  point  that  he  wish'd  ;  and  Matilda  divined 
The  significant  pause  with  new  trouble  of  mind. 
She  lifted  one  moment  her  head  ;  but  her  look 
Encounter'd  the  ardent  regard  of  the  Duke, 
And  dropp'd  back  on  her  floweret  abash'd.     Then, 

still  seeking 
The  assurance   she    fancied    she    show"d    him    by 

speaking. 
She  conceived  herself  safe  in  adopting  again 
The  theme  she  should  most  have  avoided  just  then. 


XXI. 

"  Duke,"  she  said,  .  .  .  and  she  felt,  as  she  spoke, 

her  cheek  burn'd, 
"You  know,  then,  this  .  .   .  lady.^" 

"  Too  well !"  he  return'd. 

Matilda. 
True  ;  you  drew  with  emotion  her  portrait  just  now. 

Luvois. 
With  emotion  .•• 


3^\s^ 


L  UCILE. 


Matilda. 
Yes,  yes  !  you  described  her,  I  know. 
As  possess'd  of  a  charm  all  unrivall'd. 

Luvois. 

Alas! 
You  mistook  me  completely  !    You,  madam,  sur- 
pass 
This  lady  as  moonlight  does  lamplight ;  as  youth 
Surpasses  its  best  imitations  ;  as  truth 
The  fairest  of  falsehoods  surpasses  ;  as  nature 
Surpasses  art's  masterpiece  ;  ay,  as  the  creature 
Fresh  and  pure  in  its  native  adornment  surpasses 
All  the  charms  got  by  heart  at  the  world's  looking- 
glasses  ! 

"  Yet  you  said," — she  continued  with  some  trepida- 
tion, 

"  That  you  quite  comprehended"  .  .  .  a  slight  hes- 
itation 

Shook   the  'sentence,  ...    "a   passion   so   strong 
as "  .  .  , 

Luvois. 

True,  true  ! 
But  not  in  a  man  that  had  once  look'd  at  you. 
Nor  can  I  conceive,  or  excuse,  or  .  .  . 

"  Hush,  hush  !" 
She  broke  in,  all  more  fair  for  one  innocent  blush. 
"  Between  man  and  woman  these  things  differ  so  ! 
It  may  be  that  the  world  pardons  .  .  .  (how  should 
I  know?) 


f- 


'^^ 


vR^iV' 


^*ril3W^QR5Sfc^  Jw 


190 


Z  UCTLE. 


In  you  what  it  visits  on  us  ;  or  't  is  trut; 

It  may  be,  that  we  women  are  better  than  you." 

Luvois. 
Who  denies  it  ?     Yet,  madam,  once  more  you  mis- 
take. 
The  world,  in    its  judgment,  some  dit^erence   ma\- 

make 
Twixt  the  man  and  the  woman,  so  far  as  respects 
Its  social  enactments  ;  but  not  as  affects 
The  one  sentiment  which,  it  were  easy  to  prove. 
Is  the  sole  law  we  look  to  the  moment  we  love. 

Matilda. 
That  may  be.     Yet  I  think  I  should  be  less  severe. 
Although  so  inexperienced  in  such  things,  I  fear 
I  have  learn 'd  that  the  heart  cannot  always  repress 
Or  account  for  the  feelings  which  sway  it. 

"  Yes  !  yes  ! 
That  is  too  true,  indeed  !"  .  .  .  the  Duke  sigh'd. 

And  again 
For  one  moment  in  silence  continued  the  twain. 

XXII. 

.At  length  the  Duke  slowly,  as  though  he  had  needed 
.\11  this  time  to  repress  his  emotions,  proceeded  : 
•'  ,A.nd  yet  !  .  .  .  what  avails,  then,  to  woman  the 

gift 
V){  a  beauty  like  yours,  if  it  cannot  uplift 
Her  heart  from  the  reach  of  one  doubt,  one  despair. 
One  pang  of  wrong'd  love,  to  which  women  less  fair 
Are  exposed,  when  they  love?" 


\ 


^^ 


L  UCILE. 


191 


With  a  quick  change  of  tone, 
As  though  by  resentment  iinpell'd,  he  went  on  : — 
'  The  name  that  you  bear,  it  is  whisper'd,  you  took 
From   love,  not  convention.     Well,  lady,  .   .   .  that 

look 
So  excited,  so  keen,  on  the  face  you  must  know 
Throughout    all    its    expressions,  — that    rapturous 

glow— 
Those  eloquent  features — significant  eyes — 
Which  that  pale  woman   sees,  yet  betrays  no  sur- 
prise," 
(He  pointed  his  hand,  as  he  spoke,  to  the  door. 
Fixing  with  it  Lucile  and  Lord  Alfred)  .  .  .  "before. 
Have  you  ever  once  seen   what  just   now  you  may 

\iew 
In  that  face  so  familiar  ?  .   .   .  no,  lady,  't  is  new. 
Young,  lovely,  and  loving,  no  doubt,  as  you  are. 

Are  you  loved  ?" 

XXIII. 

He  look'd  at  her — paused — felt  if  thus  far 
The  ground  held  yet.     The  ardor  with  which  he 

had  spoken, 
This  close,  rapid  question,  thus  suddenly  broken. 
Inspired  in  Matilda  a  vague  sense  of  fear. 
As  though  some  indefinite  danger  were  near. 
With  composure,  however,  at  once  she  replied  : — 
"  'T  is  three  years  since  the  day  when  I   first  was  a 

bride. 
And  my  husband  I  never  had  cause  to  suspect ; 
Nor  ever  have  stoop'd,  sir,  such  cause  to  detect. 
Yet  if  in  his  looks  or  his  acts  I  should  see — 


F 


ig2 


LUCILE. 


See,  or  fancy — some  moment's  oblivion  of  me, 
I  trust  that  I  too  should  forget  it, — for  you 
Must  have  seen  that  my  heart  is  my  husband's." 

The  hue 
On  her  cheek,  with  the  effort  wherewith  to  the  Duke 
She  had  uttered  this  vague  and  half-frighten 'd  re- 
buke. 
Was  white  as  the  rose  in  her  hand.  The  last  word 
Seem'd  to  die   or*'  her  lip,  and  could  scarcely  be 

heard. 
There  was  silence  again. 

A  great  step  had  been  made 
By  the  Duke  in  the  words  he  that  evening  had  said. 
There,   half  drown'd  by  the  music,  Matilda,  that 

night. 
Had  listen'd, — long  listen'd — no  doubt,  in  despite 
Of  herself,  to  a  voice  she  should  never  have  heard. 
And  her  heart  by  that  voice  had  been  troubled  and 

stirr'd. 
And  so,  having  suffer'd  in  silence  his  eye 
To  fathom  her  own,  he  resumed,  with  a  sigh  : 

XXIV. 

•'  Will  you  suffer  me,  lady,  your  thoughts  to  invade 
By  disclosing  my  own  ?     The  position,"  he  said, 
"  In  which  we  so  strangely  seem  placed  may  excuse 
The  frankness  and  force  of  the  words  which  I  use. 
You  say  that  your  heart  is  your  husband's  :  you  say 
That  you  love  him.     You  think  so,  of  course,  lady 

.  .  .  nay. 
Such  a  love,  I  admit,  were  a  merit,  no  doubt. 


il 


i 


/sSSTi^  ^^^^ 


L  UCILE. 


193 


But,  trust  me,  no  true  love  there  can  be  without 
Its  dread  penalty — jealousy. 

"  Well,  do  not  start ! 
Until  now — either  thanks  to  a  singular  art 
Of  supreme  self-control,  you  have  held  them  all 

down 
Unreveal'd  in  your  heart, — or  you  never  have  known 
Even  one  of  those  fierce  irresistible  pangs 
Which  deep  passion  engenders  ,'  that  anguish  which 

hangs 
On  the  heart  like  a  nightmare,  by  jealousy  bred. 
But  if,  lady,  the  love  you  describe,  in  the  bed 
Of  a  blissful  security  thus  hath  reposed 
Undisturb'd  with  mild  eyelids  on  happiness  closed. 
Were  it  not  to  expose  to  a  peril  unjust. 
And  most  cruel,  that  happy  repose  you  so  trust. 
To  meet,  to  receive,  and,  indeed,  it  may  be. 
For  how  long  I  know  not,  continue  to  see 
A  woman  whose  place  rivals  yours  in  the  life 
And  the  heart  which  not  only  your  title  of  wife, 
But  also  (forgive  me  !)  your  beauty  alone. 
Should  have  made  wholly  yours  ?— You,  who  gave 

all  your  own  ! 
Reflect !  — 't  is  the  peace  of  existence  you  stake 
On  the  turn  of  a  die.     And  for  whose — for  his  sake  ? 
While  you  witness  this  woman,  the  false  point  of 

view 
From  which  she  must  now  be  regarded  by  you 
Will  exaggerate  to  you,  whatever  they  be. 
The  charms  I  admit  she  possesses.     To  me 
They  are  trivial  indeed  ;  yet  to  your  eyes,  I  fear 


^'^i^&...y^:«i»^- 


:^v. 


1 94 


LUCILE. 


And  foresee,  they  will  true  and  intrinsic  appear. 
Self-unconscious,  and  sweetly  unable  to  guess 
How  more  lovely  by  far  is  the  grace  you  possess. 
You  will  wrong  your  own   beauty.     The  graces  ot 

art. 
You  will  take  for  the  natural  charm  of  the  heart ; 
Studied  manners,  the  brilliant  and  bold  repartee. 
Will  too  soon  in  that  fatal  comparison  be 
To  your  fancy  more  fair  than  the  sweet  timid  sense 
Which,  in  shrinking,  betrays  its  own  best  eloquence. 

0  then,  lady,  then,  you  will  feel  in  your  heart 
The  poisonous  pain  of  a  fierce  jealous  dart ! 
While  you  see    her,    yourself  you    no    longer    will 

see, — 
You  will  hear  her,  and  hear  not  yourself, — you  will  be 
Unhappy  ;  unhappy,  because  you  will  deem 
Your  own  power  less  great  than  her  power  will  seem. 
And  I  shall  not  be  by  your  side,  day  by  day. 
In  despite  of  your  noble  displeasure,  to  say 
•  You  are  fairer  than  she,  as  the  star  is  more  fair 
Than  the  diamond,  the  brightest  that  beauty  can 

wear ! '  " 

XXV. 

This  appeal,  both  by  looks  and    by  language,  in- 
creased 
The  trouble  Matilda  felt  grow  in  her  breast. 
Still  she  spoke  with  what  calmness  she  could — 

"  Sir,  the  while 

1  thank  you,"  she  said,  with  a  faint  scornful  smile. 
"  For  your  fervor  in  painting  my  fancied  distress  : 
Allow  me  the  right  some  surprise  to  express 


I 


•iir.' 


Z  UCILE. 


195 


At  the  zeal  you  betray  in  disclosing  to  me 

The  possible  depth  of  my  own  misery." 

"  That  zeal  would  not  startle  you,  madam,"  he  said, 

'•  Could  you  read  in  my  heart,  as  myself  I  have  read, 

The  peculiar  interest  which  causes  that  zeal — " 

Matilda  her  terror  no  more  could  conceal. 

"  Duke,"  she   answer'd  in  accents  short,  cold,  and 

severe, 
As  she  rose  from  her  seat,  "  I  continue  to  hear; 
But  permit  me  to  say,  I  no  more  understand." 
•'  Forgive  !"  with  a  nervous  appeal  of  the  hand. 
And  a  well-feign'd  confusion  of  voice  and  of  look, 
"  Forgive,    oh,   forgive    me  !"   at    once      cried    the 

Duke. 
"  I  forgot  that  you  know  me  so  slightly.     Your  leave 
I  entreat  (from  your  anger  those  words  to  retrieve) 
For  one  moment  to  speak  of  myself, — for  I  think 
That  you  wrong  me — " 

His  voice,  as  in  pain,  seem'd  to  sink; 
And  tears  in  his  eyes,  as  he  lifted  them,  glisten'd. 

XXVI. 
Matilda,  despite  of  herself,  sat  and  listen 'd. 

XXVII. 
"  Beneath  an  exterior  which    seems,   and    may    be. 
Worldly,  frivolous,  careless,  my  heart  hides  in  me," 
He  continued,  "  a  sorrow  which  draws  me  to  side 
With  all  things  that  suffer.     Nay,  laugh  not,"  he 

cried, 
"  At  so  strange  an  avowal. 


t? 


iq6 


L  UCILE. 


fS-Jv 


"  I  seek  at  a  ball, 
For  instance, — the  beauty  admired  by  all  ? 
No  !  some  plain,  insignificant  creature,  who  sits 
Scorn 'd  of  course  bv  the  beauties,  and  shunn'd  by 

the  wits. 
All  the  world  is  accustom 'd  to  wound,  or  neglect. 
Or  oppress,  claims  my  heart    and  commands    my 

respect. 
No  Quixote,  I  do  not  affect  to  belong, 
I  admit,  to  those  charter'd  redressers  of  wrong  ; 
But  I  seek  to  console,  where  I  can.     'T  is  a  part 
Not  brilliant,  I  own,  yet  its  joys  bring  no  smart." 
These  trite    words,  from   the  tone  which  he    gave 

them,  received 
An  appearance  of  truth,  which  might  well  be  be- 
lieved 
By  a  heart  shrewder  yet  than  Matilda's. 

And  so 
He  continued  .  .  .  "  O  lady  I  alas,  could  you  know 
What  injustice  and  wrong  in  this  world  I  have  seen  ! 
How  many  a  woman,  believed  to  have  been 
Without  a  regret,  I  have  known  turn  aside 
To  burst  into  heartbroken  tears  undescribed  ! 
On    how  many  a  lip  have  I  witnessed  the  smile 
Which  but  hid  what    was   breaking   the  poor  heart 

the  while !" 
Said    Matilda,    "Your    life,    it   would    seem,    then, 

must  be 
One  long  act  of  devotion." 

"  Perhaps  so,"  said  he  ; 
"  But  at  least  that  devotion  small  merit  can  boast. 


^ 
'* 


JlfffF^ 


i^vr^  .fisiss!^ 


LUCILE. 


197 


if  ^;;^  day  at   the 


how 


For  one  clay   may  yet  come, 

most, — 
When,  perceiving  at  last  all  the  difference 

great ! — 
Twixt   the   heart  that  neglects,  and   the  heart  that 

can  wait, 
'Twixt  the  natures  that  pity,  the  natures   that  pain. 
Some  woman,  that  else  might  havepass'd  in  disdain 
Or  indifference  by  me,— in  passing  that  day 
Might  pause  with  a  word  or  a  smile  to  repay 
This  devotion, — and  then  "... 

XXVIII. 

To  Matilda's  relief 

At  that  moment  her  husband  approach'd. 

With  some  grief 
I   must  own  that  her  welcome,  perchance,  was  ex- 

press'd 
The  more  eagerly  just  for  one  twinge  in  her  breast 
Of  a  conscience  disturb'd,  and   her  smile  not  less 

warm. 
Though  she    saw   the  Comtesse  de  Nevers  on   his 

arm. 
The  Duke  turn'd  and  adjusted  his  collar. 

Thought  he 

■'  Good  !  the  gods  fight  my  battle  to-night.  I  foresee 
That  the  family  doctor 's  the  part  I  must  play. 
Very  well !  but  the  patients  my  visits  shall  pay." 
Lord  Alfred  presented  Lucile  to  his  wife  ; 
And  Matilda,  repressing  with  effort  the  strife 
Of  emotions  which  made  her  voice  shake,  murmur'd 
low 


19^ 


L  UCILE. 


%., 


Some  faint,  troubled  greeting.  The  Duke,  with  a  bow 

Which  betoken'd  a  distant  defiance,  replied 

To  Lucile's  startled  cry,  as  surprised  she  descried 

Her  former  gay  wooer.     Anon,  with  the  grace 

Of  that    kindness  which  seeks  to  win  kindness,  her 

place  , 

She  assumed  by  Matilda,  unconscious,  perchance, 
Or  resolved  not  to  notice,  the  half-frighten'd  glance 
That  foUow'd  that  movement. 

The  Duke  to  his  feet 
Arose ;  and,  in  silence,  relinquish'd  his  seat. 
One  must  own  that  the  moment  was  awkward  for 

all: 
But  nevertheless,  before  long,  the  strange  thrall 
Of  Lucile's  gracious  tact  was  by  every  one  felt. 
And  from  each  the  reserve  seem'd,  reluctant,  to  melt : 
Thus,  conversing  together,  the  whole  of  the  four 
Thro'  the  crowd  saunter'd.  smiling. 

XXIX. 

Approaching  the  door, 
Eugene  de  Luvois,  who  had  fallen  behind. 
By  Lucile,  after  some  hesitation,  was  join'd 
With  a  gesture  of  gentle  and  kindly  appeal 
Which    appear'd  to  imply,  without  words,  "Let  us 

feel 
That  the  friendship  between  us  in  years  that  are 

tied. 
Has  survived  one  mad  moment  forgotten,"  she  said, 
"  You  remain.  Duke,  at  Ems  ?" 

He  turn'd  on  her  a  look 


"And  still  watching  Matilda,  she  answered,  'I  too.'  "—Page  199. 


Z  UCILE. 


199 


Of  frigid,  resentful,  and  sullen  rebuke  ; 

And  then,  with  a  more  than  significant  glance 

At  Matilda,  maliciously  answer'd.  "  Perchance 

I  have  here  an  attraction.     And  you  ?"  he  return'd. 

Lucile's  eyes  had  foUow'd  his  own,  and  discern 'd 

The  boast  they  implied. 

He  repeated,  "  And  you.-*" 
And,  still  watching  Matilda,  she  answer'd,  "  I  too." 
And  he  thought,  as  with  that  word  she  left  him,  she 

sigh'd. 
The  next  moment  her  place  she  resumed  by  the  side 
Of  Matilda  ;  and  soon  they  shook  hands  at  the  gate 
Of  the  selfsame  hotel. 

XXX. 

One  depress'd,  one  elate, 
The  Duke  and  Lord  Alfred  again,  thro'  the  glooms 
Of  the  thick  linden  alley,  return'd  to  the  Rooms. 
His  cigar  each  had  lighted,  a  moment  before, 
At  the  inn,  as  they  turn'd,  arm-in-arm,  from    the 

door. 
Ems  cigars  do  not  cheer  a  man's  spirits,  expcrto 
( Me  intserum  quoties  f)  crede  Roberto. 
In  silence,  awhile,  they  walk'd  onward. 

At  last 
The  Duke's  thoughts  to  language    half   consciously 

pass'd. 

Luvois. 

( )nce  more  I  yet  once  more  ! 

Alfred. 

What } 


%k 


200  LUCILE. 

LuvoiS. 

We  meet  her,  once  more, 
The  woman  for  whom  we  two  madmen  of  yore 
(Laugh,  mon  cher  Alfred,  laugh  !)   were  about  to 

destroy 
Each  other  ! 

Alfred. 

It  IS  not  with  laughter  that  I 
Raise  the  ghost  of  that  once  troubled  time.      Say  ! 

can  you 
Recall  it  with  coolness  and  quietude  now  ? 

LuvoiS. 
Now  .'  yes  !    I,  mon  cher,  am  a  true  Parisien : 
Now  the  red  revolution,  the  tocsin,  and  then 
The  dance  and  the  play.     I  am  now  at  the  play. 

Alfred. 
At  the  play,  are  you  now  }     Then  perchance  I  now 

may 
Presume,  Duke,  to  ask  you  what,  ever  until 
Such  a  moment  I  waited  .  .  . 

LuvoiS. 

Oh  !  ask  what  you  will. 
Franc  Jen!  on  the  table  my  cards  I  spread  out. 
Ask! 

Alfred. 

Duke,  you  were  call'd  to  a  meeting  (no  doubt 
You  remember  it  yet)  with  Lucile.     It  was  night 
When  you  went ;  and  before  you  return 'd  it  was 
light. 


iimi^^'' 


w 


>/- 


t 

t. 

n 


3^ 


'"^Q^ 


L  UCILE.  201 

We  met :  you  accosted  me  then  with  a  brow 
Bright  with  triumph  :  your  words  (you  remember 

them  now?) 
Were  "  Let  us  be  friends  !" 

Luvois. 

Well? 

Alfred. 

How  then,  after  that 

Can  you  and  she  meet  as  acquaintances  ? 

Luvois. 

What! 

Did  she  not  then,  herself,  the  Comtesse  de  Nevers, 

Solve  your  riddle  to-night  with  those  soft  lips  of 

hers? 

Alfred. 

In  our  converse  to-night  we  avoided  the  past. 
But  the  question  I  ask  should  be  answer'd  at  last  : 
By  you,  if  you  will ;  if  you  will  not,  by  her. 

Luvois. 
Indeed  ?  but  that  question,  milord,  can  it  stir 
Such  an  interest  in  you,  if  your  passion  be  o'er  ? 

Alfred. 
Yes.    Esteem  may  remain,  although  love  be  no  more. 
Lucile  ask'd  me,  this  night,  to  my  wife  (understand 
To  my  zvife  !)  to  present  her.    I  did  so.    Her  hand 
Has  clasp'd  that  of  Matilda.     We  gentlemen  owe 
Respect  to  the  name  that  is  ours  :  and,  if  so, 
To  the  woman  that  bears  it  a  twofold  respect. 


^ 


-^1^ 


L  UCILE. 


m^MT 


Answer,  Due  de  Luvois !     Did  Lucile  then  reject 
The  proffer  you  made  of  your  hand  and  your  name  ? 
Or  (lid  you  on  her  love  then  relinquish  a  claim 
Urged  before  ?     I  ask  bluntly  this  question,  because 
My  title  to  do  so  is  clear  by  the  laws 
That  all  gentlemen  honor.     Make  only  one  sign 
That  you  know  of  Lucile  de  Nevers  aught,  in  fine. 
For  which,  if  your  own  virgin  sister  were  by, 
From   Lucile   you  would  shield   her  acquaintance, 

and  I 
And  Matilda  leave  Ems  on  the  morrow. 

XXXI. 

The  Duke 
Hesitated  and  paused.     He  could  tell,  by  the  look 
Of  the  man  at  his  side,  that  he  meant  what  he  said, 
And  there    flash 'd  in  a  moment    these    thoughts 

through  his  head  : 
"  Leave  Ems  !  would  that  suit  me  ?  no  !  that  were 

again 
To  mar  all.     And  besides,  if  I  do  not  explain. 
She  herself  will  .  .  .  ei  puis,  il  a  raison  ;  oti  est 
GentilJwinme  avatit  tout  !"     He  replied  therefore, 

"  Nay ! 
Madame  de  Nevers  had  rejected  me.    I. 
In  those  days,  I  was  mad  ;  and  in  some  mad  reply 
I  threatened  the  life  of  the  rival  to  whom 
That  rejection  was  due,  I  was  led  to  presume. 
She  fear'd  for  his  life  ;  and  the  letter  which  then 
She  wrote  me,  I  show'd  you  ;  we  met :  and  again 
My  hand  was  refused,  and  my  love  was  denied. 


,^ 


1^ 


L  UCILE. 


203 


And  the  glance  vou  mistook  was  the  vizard  which 

Pride 
Lends  to  Humiliation. 

"  And  so,"  half  in  jest, 
He  went  on,  "  in  this  best  world,  't  is  all  for  the  best ; 
You  are  wedded  (bless 'd  Englishman !),  wedded  to 

one 
Whose  past  can  be  call'd  into  question  by  none  : 
And  I  (fickle  Frenchman  !)  can  still  laugh  to  feel 
I  am  lord  of  myself,  and  the  Mode  :  and  Lucile 
Still  shines  from  her  pedestal,  frigid  and  fair 
As  yon  (^erman  moon  o'er  the  linden-tops  there ! 
A  Dian  in  marble  that  scorns  any  troth 
With  the  little  love-gods,  whom  I  thank  for  us  both. 
While  she  smiles  from  her  lonely  Olympus  apart. 
That  her  arrows  are  marble  as  well  as  her  heart. 
Stay  at  Ems,  Alfred  Vargrave  !" 

xxxii. 

The  Duke,  with  a  smile, 
Turn'd  and  enter'd  the  Rooms  which,  thus  talking, 

meanwhile, 
Thev  had  reach'd. 

XXXIII. 

Alfred  \^argrave  strode  on  (overthrown 
Heart   and    mind!)   in    the    darkness    bewilder'd, 

alone : 
"  And  so,"  to  himself  did  he  mutter,  "  and  so 
'T  was  to  rescue  my  life,  gentle  spirit !  and,  oh. 
For  this  did  I  doubt  her?  ...  a  light  word  —  a 

look — 


^  Jf , 


% 


204 


L  UCILE. 


The   mistake   of  a  moment  I  .  .  .    for   this  I    for- 
sook— 
For  this  ?     Pardon,  pardon,  Lucile  !     O  Lucile  !" 
Thought  and  memory  rang,  like  a  funeral  peal, 
Weary  changes  on  one  dirge-like  note  through  his 

brain, 
As  he  stray'd  down  the  darkness. 

XXXIV. 

Re-entering  again 

The  Casino,  the  Duke  smiled.  He  turn'd  to  rou- 
lette. 

And  sat  down,  and  play'd  fast,  and  lost  largely,  and 
yet 

He  still  smiled  :  night  deepen'd  :  he  play'd  his  last 
number: 

Went  home  :  and  soon  slept :  and  still  smiled  m  his 
slumber. 

XXXV. 

In  his  desolate  Maxims,  La  Rochefoucauld  wrote, 
•■  In  the   grief  or  mischance  of  a   friend  you   may 

note. 
There  is  something  which  always  gives  pleasure." 

Alas ! 
That  reflection  fell  short  of  the  truth  as  it  was. 
La  Rochefoucauld  might  have  as  truly  set  down — 
"  No  misfortune,  but  what  some  one  turns  to  his 

own 
Advantage  its  mischief :  no  sorrow,  but  of  it 
There  ever  is  somebody  ready  to  profit : 
No  affliction  without  its  stock-jobbers,  who  all 
(iamble,  speculate,  play  on  the  rise  and  the  fall 


s 

h 


h' 


<f^€'^ 


L  UCILE. 


205 


Of  another  man's  heart,  and  make  traffic  in  it." 
Burn  thy  book.  O  La  Rochefoucauld  ! 

Fool !  one  man's  wit 
All  men's  selfishness  how  should  it  fathom  ? 

O  sage. 

Dost  thou  satirize  Nature  ? 

She  laughs  at  thy  page. 


CANTO  II. 


Cousin  John  to  Cousin  Alfred. 

"  London,  18 — 

"  My  dear  Alfred, 

Your  last  letters  put  me  in  pain. . 
This  contempt  of  existence,  this  listless  disdain 
Of  your  own  life,— its  joys  and  its  duties,— the  deuce 
Take  my  wits  if  they  find  for  it  half  an  excuse  ! 
I  wish  that  some  Frenchman  would  shoot  off  your 

leg, 
And  compel  you  to  stump  through  the  world  on  a 

peg- 
I  wish  that  you  had,  like  myself  (more's  the  pity !), 
To  sit  seven  hours  on  this  cursed  committee. 
I  wish  that  you  knew,  sir,  how  salt  is  the  bread 
Of  another~(what  is  it  that  Dante  has  said  ?) 
And  the  trouble  of  other  men's  stairs.     In  a  word, 
I  wish  fate  had  some  real  affliction  conferr'd 
On  your  whimsical  self,  that,  at  least,  you  had  cause 
For  neglecting  life's  duties,  and  damning  its  laws  ! 


Z  UCILE. 

This  pressure  against  all  the  purpose  of  life, 
This  self-ebullition,  and  ferment,  and  strife, 
Betoken "d,  I  grant  that  it  may  be  in  truth. 
The  richness  and  strength  of  the  new  wine  of  youth, 
fiut   if,  when  the  wine  should  have   mellow'd  with 

time, 
Being  bottled  and  binn'd,  to  a  flavor  sublime 
It  retains  the  same  acrid,  incongruous  taste. 
Why,  the  sooner  to  throw  it  away  that  we  haste 
The  better,  I  take  it.     And  this  vice  of  snarling, 
Self-love's  little  lapdog,  the  overfed  darling 
Of  a  hypochondriacal  fancy  appears. 
To  my  thinking,  at  least,  in  a  man  of  your  years, 
At  the  midnoon  of  manhood  with  plenty  to  do. 
And  every  incentive  for  doing  it  too, — 
With  the  duties  of  life  just  sufficiently  pressing 
For   prayer,  and  of  joys   more  than   most    men   for 

blessing  ; 
With  a  pretty  young  wife,  and  a  pretty  full  purse, — 
Like  poltroonery,  puerile  truly,  or  worse  I 
I  wish  1  could  get  you  at  least  to  agree 
To  take  life  as  it  is,  and  consider  with  me, 
If  it  be  not  all  smiles,  that  it  is  not  all  sneers  ; 
It  admits  honest  laughter,  and  needs  honest  tears. 
Do  you  think  none  have  known  but  yourself  all  the 

pain 

Of  hopes  that  retreat,  and  regrets  that  remain  ? 
And  all  the  wide  distance  fate  fixes,  no  doubt, 
'Twixt  the    life    that  's  within,  and   the   life    that 's 

without  ? 
What  one  of  us  finds  the  world  just  as  he  likes  } 


.^rii:'?*-.  ^■sr 


Z  UCILE. 


207 


Or  gets  what  he  wants  when  he  wants  it  ?    Or  strikes 
Without  missing  the  thing   that   he   strikes  at    the 

first  ? 
Or  walks   without    stumbling?     Or   quenches    his 

thirst 
At   one  draught  ?     Bah  !     I  tell  you  !    I,  bachelor 

John, 
Have  had  griefs  of  my  own.     But  what  then?     I 

push  on 
All  the  faster  perchance  that  I  yet  feel  the  pain 
Of  my  last  fall,  albeit  I  may  stumble  again, 
(jod  means  every  man  to  be  happy,  be  sure. 
He  sends  us  no  sorrows  that  have  not  some  cure. 
Our  duty  down  here  is  to  do,  not  to  know. 
Live  as  though  life  were  earnest,  and  life  will  be  so. 
Let   each   moment,    like  Time's  last   ambassador, 

come  : 
It  will  wait  to  deliver  its  message  ;  and  some 
Sort  of  answer  it  merits.     It  is  not  the  deed 
A  man  does,  but   the  way  that  he   does   it,   should 

plead 
For  the  man's  compensation  in  doing  it. 

"  Here, 
My  next  neighbor's  a  man  with  twelve  thousand  a 

year. 
Who  deems  that  life  has  not  a  pastime  more  pleasant 
Than  to  follow  a  fox,  or  to  slaughter  a  pheasant. 
Yet  this  fellow  goes  through  a  contested  election. 
Lives  in  London,  and  sits,  like  the  soul  of  dejection. 
All  the  day  through  upon  a  committee,  and  late 
To  the  last,  every  night,  through  the  dreary  debate. 


..w#^- 


20S 


Z  UCILE. 


As  though  herwere  getting  each  speaker  by  heart. 
Though  amongst  them  he  never  presumes  to  take 

part.  ^ 

One  asks  himself  why,  without  murmur  or  (Question, 
He  foregoes  all  his  tastes,  and  destroys  his  digestion, 
For  a  labor  of  which  the  result  seems  so  small. 
'  The  man  is  ambitious,'  you'  say.     Not  at  all. 
He  has  just  sense  enough  to  be  fully  aware 
That  he  never  can  hope  to  be  Premier,  or  share 
The  renown  of  a  TuUy ; — or  even  to  hold 
A  subordinate  office.     He  is  not  so  bold 
As  to  fancy  the  House  for  ten  minutes  would  bear 
With  patience  his  modest  opinions  to  hear. 
'  But  he  wants  something  I  ' 

"  What !  with  twelve  thousand  a  year? 
What  could  Government  give  him  would  be  half  so 

dear 
To  his  heart  as  a  walk  with  a  dog  and  a  gun 
Through  his  own  pheasant  woods,  or  a  capital  run  ? 
'  No  ;  but  vanity  fills  out  the  emptiest  brain  ; 
The  man  would  be  more  than  his  neighbors,  't  is 

plain  ; 
And  the  drudgery  drearily  gone  through  in  town 
Is  more  than  repaid  by  provincial  renown. 
Enough  if  some  Marchioness,  lively  and  loose. 
Shall   have  eyed  him  with   passing  complaisance; 

the  goose, 
If  the  Fashion  to  him  open  one  of  its  doors. 
As  proud  as  a  sultan,  returns  to  his  boors.' 
Wrong  again  I  if  you  think  so. 

"  For,  primo  ;  \\\s  friend 


L  UCILE. 


209 


Is  the  head  of  a  family  known  from  one  end 
Of  his  shire  to  the  other,  as  the  oldest ;  and  there- 
fore 
He  despises  tine  lords  and  fine  ladies.     He  care  for 
A  peerage  ?  no  truly  !    Secondo  ;  he  rarely 
Or  never  goes  out  :  dines  at  Bellamy's  sparely, 
And  abhors  what  you  call  the  gay  world. 

"  Then,  1  ask, 
What  inspires,  and  consoles,  such    a   self-imposed 

task 
As    the  life  of  this  man,— but  the  sense  of  its  duty.' 
And  1  swear  that  the  eyes  of  the  haughtiest  beauty 
Have  never  inspired  in  my  soul  that  intense. 
Reverential,  and  loving,  and  absolute  sense 
Of  heart-felt  admiration  I  feel  for  this  man, 
As  I  see  him  beside  me;— there,  wearing  the  wan 
London  daylight  away,  on  his  humdrum  committee  ; 
So  unconscious  of  all  that  awakens  my  pity. 
And  wonder — and  worship,  I  might  say. 

"  To  me 
There  seems  something  nobler  than  genius  to  be 
In  that  dull  patient  labor  no  genius  relieves, 
That  absence  of  all  joy  which  yet  never  grieves  ; 
The  humility  of  it  !    the  grandeur  wiihal  ! 
The  sublimity  of  it !     And  yet,  should  \  ou  call 
The  man's  own  very  slow  apprehension  to  this. 
He  would  ask,  with  a  stare,  what  sublimity  is  ! 
His  work  is  the  duty  to  which  he  was  born  ; 
He  accepts  it,  without  ostentation  or  scorn  :  ~    ^ 

And    this   man   is  no    uncommon    type    (1    thank 
Heaven  !) 


1  ^ss?^  itfS^pfflBt 


^^  '^^ 


m 


2IO  LUCILE. 

Of  this  land's  common  men.  In  all  other  lands,  even 
The  type's  self  is  wanting.    Perchance,  't  is  the  rea- 
son 
That  Government  oscillates  ever  'twixt  treason 
And  tyranny  elsewhere. 

"  I  wander  away 
Too  far,  though,  from  what  I  was  wishing  to  say. 
You,  for  instance,  read  Plato.     You  know  that  the 

soul 
Is  immortal  ;  and  put  this  in  rhyme,  on  the  whole, 
Very  well,  with  sublime  illustration.     Man's  heart 
Is  a  mystery,  doubtless.     You  trace  it  in  art  : — 
The  Greek  Psyche,  -  -  that  's  beauty,  —  the  perfect 

ideal. 
But  then  comes  the  imperfect,  perfectible  real, 
With  its  pain'd  aspiration  and  strife.     In  those  pale 
Ill-drawn  virgins  of  Giotto  you  see  it  prevail. 
You  have  studied  all  this.     Then,  the  universe,  toO; 
Is  not  a  mere  house  to  be  lived  in,  for  you. 
Geology  opens  the  mind.     So  you  know 
Something  also  of  strata  and  fossils  ;  these  show 
The  bases  of  cosmical  structure  :  some  mention 
Of  the  nebulous  theoiy  demands  your  attention  ; 
And  so  on. 

"  In  short,  it  is  clear  the  interior 
Of  your  brain,  my  dear  Alfred,  is  vastly  superior 
In  fibre,  and  fulness,  and  function,  and  tire. 
To  that  of  my  poor  parliamentary  squire  ; 
But  your  life  leaves  upon  me  (forgive  me  this  heat 
Due  to  friendship)  the  sense  of  a  thing  incomplete 
You  fly  high.     But  what  is  it,  in  truth,  vou  fly  at  ? 


pS^ 


% 


L  UCILE. 


My  mind  is  not  satisfied  quite  as  to  that. 

An  old  illustration  's  as  good  as  a  new, 

Provided  the  old  illustration  be  true. 

We  are  children.     Mere  kites  are  the  fancies  we  fly. 

Though  we  marvel  to  see  them  ascending  so  high  ; 

Things  slight  in  themselves, — long-tail'd  toys,  and 

no  more  : 
What  is  it  that  makes  the  kite  steadily  soar 
Through  the  realms  where  the  cloud  and  the  whirl 

wind  have  birth 
But  the  tie  that  attaches  the  kite  to  the  earth  } 
1  remember  the  lessons  of  childhood,  you  see, 
And  the  hornbook  I  learn'd  on  my  poor  mother's 

knee. 
In  truth,  I  suspect  little  else  do  we  learn 
From  this  great  book  of  life,  which  so  shrewdly  we 

turn, 
Saving  how  to  apply,  with  a  good  or  bad  grace, 
What  we  learn'd  in  the  hornbook  of  childhood. 

"  Your  case 
Is  exactly  in  point. 

"  Fly  your  kite,  if  you  please. 
Out  of  sight :  let  it  go  where  it  will,  on  the  breeze ; 
But  cut  not  the  one  thread  by  which  it  is  bound. 
Be  it  never  so  high,  to  this  poor  human  ground. 
No  man  is  the  absolute  lord  of  his  life. 
You,  my  friend,  have  a  home,  and  a  sweet  and  dear 

wife. 
If  I  often  have  sigh'd  by  my  own  silent  fire, 
With  the  sense  of  a  sometimes  recurring  desire 
For  a  voice  sweet  and  low,  or  a  face  fond  and  fair. 


'^ 


I 


% 


212  LUCILE. 

Some  (lull  winter  evening  to  solace  and  share 
With  the  love  which  the  world   its  good  children 

allows 
To  shake  hands  with, — in  short,  a  legitimate  spouse, 
This  thought   has   consoled  me  :  '  At   least   1  have 

given 
For  my  own  good  behavior  no  hostage  in  hea\en.' 
You  have,  though.     Forget  it  not !  faith,  if  you  do, 
I  would  rather  break  stones  on  the  road  than  be  you. 
if  any  man  wilfully  injured,  or  led 
That  little  girl  wrong.  I  would  sit  on  his  head. 
F.ven  though  you  yourself  were  the  sinner  I 

"  And   this 
Leads  me  back  (do  not  take  it,  dear  cousin,  amiss!) 
To  the  matter  I  meant  to  have  mentioned  at  once. 
Hut  these  thoughts   put   it  out  of  my  head  for  the 

nonce. 
Of  all  the  preposterous  humbugs  and  shams, 
0\  all  the  old  wolves  ever  taken  for  lambs, 
The  wolf  best  received  by  the  tfock  he  devours 
Is  that  uncle-in-law,  my  dear  Alfred,  of  yours. 
At  least,  this  has  long  been  my  settled  conviction. 
And  I  almost  would  venture  at  once  the  prediction 
That  before  very  long — but  no  matter  I  1  trust 
For  his  sake  and  our  own,  that  1  may  be  unjust. 
But  Heaven  forgive  me,  if  cautious  1  am  on 
The  score  of  such  men  as,  with  both  Ciod  and  Man>- 

mon. 
Seem  so  shrewdlv  familiar. 

"  Neglect  not  this  warning. 
There  were  rumors  afloat  in  the  Citv  this  morning 


/#'-'flSftaBi? 


.^ 


LUCILE. 


213 


Which  I  scarce    like    the  sound  of.     Who    knows  ? 

would  he  fleece 
At  a  pinch,  the  old  hypocrite,  even  his  own  niece  ? 
For  the  sake  of  Matilda  I  cannot  importune 
Your  attention  too  early.     If  all  your  wife's  fortune 
Is  yet  in  the  hands  of  that  specious  old  sinner, 
Who  would  dice  with    the  devil,  and   yet  rise   up 

winner, 
1  say,  lose  no  time  !  get  it  out  of  the  grab 
Of  her  trustee  and  uncle,  Sir  Ridley  MacNab. 
1  trust  those  deposits,  at  least,  are  drawn  out, 
And    safe  at  this  moment  from  danger  or  doubt. 
A  wink  is  as  good  as  a  nod  to  the  wise. 
Verbum  sap.     I  admit  nothing  yet  justifies 
My  mistrust  ;  but  I  have  in  my  own  mind  a  notion 
That  old  Ridley's  white  waistcoat,  and  airs  of  devo- 
tion. 
Have  long  been  the  only  ostensible  capital 
On  which  he  does  business.     If  so,  time  must  sap  it 

all. 
Sooner  or  later.     Look  sharp.     Do  not  wait, 
Draw  at  once.     In  a  fortnight  it  may  be  too  late. 
I  admit  I  know  nothing.     I  can  but  suspect  ; 
I  give  you  my  notions.     Form  yours  and  reflect. 
My  love  to  Matilda.     Her  mother  looks  well. 
I  saw  her  last  week.     I  have  nothing  to  tell 
Worth  your   hearing.     We  think  that  the  Govern- 
ment here 
Will  not  last  our  next  session.     Fitz  Funk  is  a  peer, 
You  will  see  by  the  Times.     There  are  symptoms 
which  show 


214 


L  UCILE. 


That  the  ministers  now  are  preparing  to  go. 
And  finish  their  feast  of  the  loaves  and  the  tishes. 
It  is  evident  that  they  are  clearing  the  dishes, 
And  cramming  their  pockets  with  bonbons.     Your 

news 
Will  be  always  acceptable.     Vere,  of  the  Blues. 
Has  bolted  with  Lady  Selina.     And  so, 
You  have  met  with  that  hot-headed  Frenchman  "1  I 

know 
That   the  man  is  a  sad  mairvais  snjet.     Take  care 
Of  Matilda.     I  wish  I  could  join  you  both  there  ; 
But,  before  I  am  free,  you  are  sure  to  be  gone. 
Good-by,  mv  dear  fellow.     Yours,  anxiously, 

"John." 
II. 

This  is  just  the  advice  I  myself  would  have  gi\en 
To   Lord    Alfred,  had    I   been    his   cousin,   which. 

Heaven 
Be  praised,  1  am  not.     But  it  reach'd  him  indeed 
In  an  unlucky  hour,  and  received  little  heed. 
A  half-languid  glance  was  the  most  that  he  lent  at 
That  time  to  these  homilies.     Pri/niau  dcmcntat 
Qucm  Dens  inilt  pcrdere.     Alfred  in  fact 
Was  behaving  just  then  in  a  way  to  distract 
Job's  self  had  Job   known  him.     The  more  you  'd 

have  thought 
The  Duke's  court  to  Matilda  his  eye  would  have 

caught. 
The  more  did  his  aspect  grow  listless  to  hers, 
And  the  more  did  it  beam  to  Lucile  de  Nevers. 
And  Matilda,  the  less  she  found  lo\r  in  the  look 


■^ 


^ 


^ 


/<^Sr^a»»  *':^- 


LUCILE. 


215 


Of  her  husband,  the  less  did  she  shrink  from  the 

Duke. 
With  each  day  that   pass'd  o'er   them,  they  each, 

heart  from  heart, 
Woke  to  feel  themselves  further  and  further  apart. 
More  and  more  of  his  time  Alfred  pass'd    at   the 

table  ; 
Played  high  ;  and   lost   more   than  to  lose  he   was 

able. 
He  o-rew  feverish,  querulous,  absent,  perverse, — 
And   here    I    must    mention,   what   made   matters 

worse. 
That  Lucile  and  the  Duke  at  the  selfsame  hotel 
With  the  Vargraves  resided.     It  needs  not  to  tell 
That  they  all  saw  too  much  of  each  other.     The 

weather 
Was  so  fine  that  it  brought  them    each   day  all  to- 
gether 
In  the  garden,  to  listen,  of  course,  to  the  band. 
The  house  was  a  sort  of   phalanster>- ;  and 
Lucile  and  Matilda  were  pleased  to  discover 
A  mutual  passion  for  music.     Moreover 
The  Duke  was  an  excellent  tenor  :  could  sing 
"  Ange  si  pure  "  in  a  way  to  bring  down  on  the 

wing 
All  the  angels  St.  Cicely  play'd  to.     My  lord 
Would  also  at  times,  when  he  was  not  too  bored. 
Play  Beethoven,  and  Wagner's  new  music,  not  ill ; 
With  some  little  things  of  his  own,  showing  skill. 
For  which  reason,  as  well  as  for  some  others  too. 
Their  rooms  were  a  pleasant  enough  rendezvous. 


2l6 


Z  UCILE. 


Did  Lucile.  then,  encourage  (the  heartless  cociuctte  I) 
All  the  mischief  she  could  not  but  mark  ? 

Patience  yet  I 
III. 

In  that  garden,  an  arbor,  withdrawn  from  the  sun. 
By  laburnum  and  lilac  with  blooms  overrun, 
P'orm'd  a  vault  of  cool  verdure,  which  made,  when 

the  heat 
Of  the  noontide  hung  heavy,  a  gracious  retreat. 
And   here,   with    some   friends   of  their   own    little 

world, 
In  the  warm  afternoons,  till  the  shadows  uncurl'd 
From  the  feet  of  the  lindens,  and  crept  through  tht- 

grass, 
Their  blue  hours  would  this  gay  little  colony  pass. 
The  men  loved  to  smoke,  and  the  women  to  bring. 
Undeterr'd  by  tobacco,  their  work  there  and  sing 
Or  converse,  till   the  dew  fell,  and  homeward   the 

bee 
Floated,  heavy  with    honey.      Towards    rve   there 

was  tea 
(A  luxury  due  to  Matilda),  and  ice. 
Fruit,  and  coffee.     'i2  "EffTrepe,  -av-a  cptpFic  ! 
Such  an  evening  it  was,  while  Matilda  presided 
O'er  the  rustic  arrangements  thus  daily  provided. 
With  the  Duke,  and  a  small  Cierman  Prince  with  a 

thick  head. 
And    an    old     Russian    Countess    both    witty  and 

wicked, 
And  two  Austrian  Colonels, — that  Alfred,  who  yet 
Was  lounging  alone  with  his  last  cigarette. 


w 


L  UCILE. 


217 


Saw  Lucile  de  Nevers  by  herself  pacing  slow 
Neath  the  shade  of  the  cool  linden-trees  to  and  fro. 
And  joining  her,  cried.  "  Thank  the  good  stars,  we 

meet  ! 
I  have  so  much  to  say  to  you  !" 

"  Yes  ?  .  .  ."  with  her  sweet 
Serene  voice,  she  replied  to  him   ..."  Yes  ?  and  1 

too 
Was  wishing,  indeed,  to  say  somewhat  to  you." 
She  was  paler  just  then  than  her  wont  was.     The 

sound 
Of  her  voice  had  within  it  a  sadness  profound. 
"  You  are  ill?"  he  exclaim"d. 

"  No  !"  she  hurriedly  said, 

"  No,  no  !" 

"  You  alarm  me  !" 

She  droop'd  down  her  head. 
"  If  your  thoughts  have  of  late  sought,  or  cared,  to 

divine 
The  purpose  of  what  has  been  passing  in  mine, 
My  farewell  can  scarcely  alarm  you." 


Alfred. 

Your  farewell  !   you  go  ! 


Lucile  ! 


Lucile. 

Yes,  Lord  Alfred 


Alfred. 
The  cause  of  this  sudden  unkindness. 


Reveal 


^a«-. 


.^SS!\i-. 


{ 


218 


LUCILE. 


LUCILE. 

Unkind  ? 
Alfred. 

Yes  !  what  else  is  this  parting  ? 
LUCILE. 

No,  no  !  are  you  blind  ? 
Look  into  your  own  heart  and  home.     Can  you  see 
No  reason  for  this,  save  un kindness  in  me  ? 
Look  into  the  eyes  of  your  wife — those  true  eyes 
Too  pure  and  too  honest  in  aught  to  disguise 
The  sweet  soul  shining  through  them. 

Alfred. 

Lucile  !  (first  and  last 
Be  the  word,  if  you  will  !)  let  me  speak  of  the  past. 
I  know  now,  alas  I  though  I  know  it  too  late, 
What    pass'd    at    that    meeting  which   settled  my 

fate. 
Nay,  nay,  interrupt  me  not  yet !  let  it  be  I 
I  but  say  what  is  due  to  yourself — due  to  me, 
.And  must  say  it. 

He  rush'd  incoherently  on. 
Describing  how,  lately,  the  truth  he  had  known. 
To  explain  how,  and  whence,  he  had  wrong'd    her 

before. 
All  the  complicate  coil  wound  about  him  of  vore. 
All  the  hopes  that  had  fiown  with  the  faith  that  was 

fled, 
"  And  then,  O  Lucile,  what  was  left  me."  he  said, 
"  When  my  life  was  defrauded  of  you,  but  to  take 
That  life,  as  't  was  left,  and  endeavor  to  make 


1^ 


iife 


L  UCILE. 


Mg 


Unobserved  by  another,  the  void  which  remain'd 
Unconceal'd  to  myself  ?     If  I  have  not  attain'd, 
I  have  striven.     One  word  of  unkindness  has  never 
Pass'd  my  Hps    to   Matilda.       Her  least  wish  has 

ever 
Received  my  submission.     And  if.  of  a  truth, 
I  have  fail'd  to  renew  what  I  felt  in  my  youth, 
I  at  least  have  been  loyal  to  what  I  do  feel, 
Respect,  duty,  honor,  affection.     Lucile, 
I  speak  not  of  love  now,  nor  love's  long  regret : 
I  would  not  offend  you,  nor  dare  I  forget 
The  ties  that  are  round  me.     But  may  there  not  be 
A  friendship  yet  hallow'd  between  you  and  me  ? 
May  we  not  be  yet  friends— friends  the  dearest  ?" 

"  Alas  !" 
She  replied,  "  for    one   moment,  perchance,  did   it 

pass 
Through  my  own  heart,  that  dream  which   forever 

hath  brought 
To  those  who  indulge  it  in  innocent  thought 
So  fatal  and  evil  a  waking  !     But  no. 
For  in  lives  such  as  ours  are,  the  Dream-tree  would 

grow 
(Jn  the  borders  of  Hades  :  beyond  it,  what  lies  ? 
The  wheel  of  Ixion,  alas  !  and  the  cries 
Of  the  lost  and  tormented.     Departed,  for  us, 
Are  the  days  when  with  innocence  we  could  dis- 
cuss 
Dreams  like  these.     Fled,  indeed,  are  the  dreams 

of  ;;//  life ! 
Oh  trust  me,  the  best  friend  you  have  is  your  wife. 


i^ 


■^Fs: 


L  UCILE. 


^'■^^}^Ml 


And  I — in  that  pure  childs  pure  virtue,  I  bow- 
To  the  beauty  of  virtue.     I  felt  on  my  brow 
Not  one   blush  when  I  first  took    her  hand.     With 

no  blush 
Shall  I  clasp  it  to-night,  when  I  leave  you. 

"  Hush  !  hush  1 
I  would  say  what  I   wish'd   to  have   said  when  you 

came. 
Do  not  think  that  years  leave  us  and  find  us  the 

same  ! 
The  woman  you  knew  long  ago,  long  ago, 
Is    no    more.     You    yourself    have    within    you,   I 

know, 
The  germ  of  a  joy  in  the  years  yet  to  be, 
\Vhereb\    the  past  years  will  bear  fruit.      .\s    for 

me, 
I  go  my  own  way, — onward,  upward  I 

•'  O  yet. 
Let  me  thank  you  for  that  which  ennobled  regret. 
When  it  came,  as  it  beautified   hope  ere  it  tied, — 
The  love  I  once  felt  for  you.     True,  it  is  dead, 
But  it  is  not  corrupted.     I  too  have  at  last 
Lived  to  learn  that    love  is  not — (such  love  as  is 

past. 
Such  love  as  youth   dreams  of  at   least) — the  sole 

part 
Of  life,  which  is  able  to  fill  up  the  heart  ; 
Even  that  of  a  woman. 

"  Between  you  and  me 
Heaven  fi.xes  a  gulf,  over  which  you  must  see 
That  our  guardian  angels  can  bear  us  no  more. 


; 


L  UCILE. 

We  each  of  us  stand  on  an  opposite  shore. 
Trust  a  woman's  opinion  for  once.     Women  learn 
By  an  instinct  men  never  attain,  to  discern 
Each  other's  true  natures.     Matilda  is  fair, 
Matilda  is  young— see  her  now.  sitting  there  !— 
How  tenderly  fashion'd— (oh,  is  she  not  ?  say. 
To  love  and  be  loved !" 


He  turn'd  sharply  away— 
"  Matilda  is  young,  and  Matilda  is  fair  ; 
Of  all  that  you  tell  me  pray  deem  me  aware  ; 
But  Matilda  's  a  statue,  Matilda  's  a  child  ; 

Matilda  loves  not — " 

Lucile  quietly  smiled 
As  she  answered  him  :— "  Yesterday,  all  that  you 

say 
Might    be    true;    it    is  false,  wholly  false,  though. 

to-day." 
"  How  ? — what  mean  you  ?" 

"  I  mean  that  to-day."  she  replied, 
"  The  statue  with  life  has  become  vivified  : 
I  mean  that  the  child  to  a  woman  has  grown  : 
And  that  woman  is  jealous." 

"  What  !  she  ?"  with  a  tone 
Of  ironical  wonder,  he  answer'd— "  what,  she  1 
She  jealous  !  —  Matilda !  —  of  whom,  pray  ?  —  not 

me  !" 
"  My  lord,  you  deceive  yourself  ;  no  one  but  you 
Is  she  jealous  of.     Trust  me.     And  thank  Heaven, 
too, 


nt^- 


^:--s:;^ii«.v 


'•*^^*'^ 


222  LUCILE. 

That  so  lately  this  passion  within  her  hath  grown. 
For  who  shall  declare,  if  for  months  she  had  known 
What  for  days  she  has  known  all  too  keenly,  I  fear, 
That  knowledge  perchance  might   have   cost   vou 
more  dear?" 

"  Explain  !    explain,    madam !"    he    cried    in    sur- 
prise ; 
And  terror  and  anger  enkindled  his  eyes. 

"  How  blind  are  you  men  !"  she  replied.  "  Can  you 

doubt 
That  a  woman,  young,  fair,  and  neglected — " 

"  Speak  out !" 
He  gasp'd  with  emotion.     "  Lucile  !  you   mean  — 

what? 
Do  you  doubt  her  fidelity  ?" 

"  Certainly  not. 
Listen  to  me,  my  friend.      What  I  wish  to  explain 
Is  so  hard  to  shape  forth.     I  could  almost  refrain 
From  touching  a  subject  so  fragile.     However, 
Bear  with  me  awhile,  if  I  frankly  endeavor 
To  invade  for  one  moment  your  innermost  life. 
Your  honor,  Lord  Alfred,  and  that  of  your  wife, 
Are  dear  to    me,  —  most  dear  !     And  I  am    con- 
vinced 
That  you  rashly  are  risking  that  honor." 

He  winced, 
And  turn"d  jiale,  as  she  spoke. 

She  had  aim'd  at  his  heart, 
And  she  saw,  by  his  sudden  and  terrified  start, 
That  her  aim  had  not  miss"d. 


■'    // 


^^ 


L  UCILE. 


223 


"  Stay,  Lucile  !"  he  exclaim'd, 
"  What    in  truth   do  you   mean    by   these   words, 

vaguely  framed 
To  alarm  me  ?     Matilda  ?  —  my  wife  ?  —  do  you 

know  ?" — 

•'  I  know  that  your  wife  is  as  spotless  as  snow. 
But  I  know  not  how  far  your  continued  neglect 
Her  nature,  as  well  as  her  heart,  might  affect. 
Till  at  last,  by  degrees,  that  serene  atmosphere 
Of  her  unconscious  purity,  faint  and  yet  clear, 
Like  the  indistinct  golden  and  vaporous  fleece 
Which  surrounded  and  hid  the  celestials  in  Greece 
From  the  glances  of  men,  would  disperse  and  de- 
part 
At  the  sighs  of  a  sick  and  delirious  heart, — 
For  jealousy  is  to  a  woman,  be  sure, 
A  disease  heal'd  too  oft  by  a  criminal  cure ; 
And  the  heart  left  too  long  to  its  ravage,  in  time 
May  find  weakness  in  virtue,  reprisal  in  crime." 

"  Such  thoughts  could  have  never,"  he  falter'd,  "  I 
know, 

Reach'd  the  heart  of  Matilda." 

"  Matilda?  oh  no  ! 

But  reflect  !  when   such   thoughts   do  not  come  of 
themselves 

To  the  heart  of  a  woman  neglected,  like  elves 

That   seek    lonely  places,  —  there  rarely  is  want- 
ing 

Some  voice  at  her  side,  with  an  evil  enchanting 

To  conjure  them  to  her." 


;^S*w^^•,• 


i>rr**J&»o.-. 


Vl-CSb-'s^flul^ 


224 


LUCILE. 


"  O  lady,  beware  I 
At  this  moment,  around  me  I  search  everywhere 
For  a  clew  to  your  words  " — 

"  You  mistake  them,"  she  said. 
Half  fearing,  indeed,  the  effect  they  had  made. 
"  I  was  putting  a  mere  hypothetical  case." 

With  a  long  look  of  trouble  he  gazed  in  her  face. 
"Woe   to    him,  .  .  ."  he  exclaim'd  .  .  .  "woe    to 

him  that  shall  feel 
Such  a  hope  !  for  I  swear,  if  he  did  but  reveal 
(^ne  glimpse,  —  it  should  be  the  last  hope  of    his 

life!" 
The  clench'd  hand  and  bent  eyebrow  betoken'd  the 

strife 
She  had  roused  in  his  heart. 

"You  forget,"  she  began, 
"  That  you  menace  yourself.     You  yourself  are  the 

man 
That  is  guilty.     Alas  !  must  it  ever  be  so.' 
Do  we  stand  in  our  own  light,  wherever  we  go, 
And  fight  our  own  shadows  forever?     O  think  I 
The   trial    from  which    you,    the    stronger    ones, 

shrink. 
You  ask  woman,  the  weaker  one,  still  to  endure ; 
You  bid  her  be  true  to  the  laws  you  abjure ; 
To  abide  by  the  ties  you  yourselves  rend  asunder. 
With  the  force  that  has  fail'd  you  ;  and  thai  too, 

when  under 
The  assumption  of  rights  which  to  her  you  refuse. 
The  immunity  claim 'd  for  yourselves  you  abuse  I 


^ 

^ 


Z  UCILE.  225 

Where  the  contract  exists,  it  invoh'es  obhgation 
To  both  husband  and  wife,  in  an  equal  relation. 
You  unloose,  in  asserting  your  own  liberty, 
A  knot,  which,  unloosed,  leaves  another  as  free. 
Then,    O    Alfred  !  be  juster   at   heart :    and  thank 

Heaven 
That  Heaven  to  your  wife  such  a  nature  has  given 
That   you  have    not    wherewith    to    reproach    her, 

albeit 
You  have  cause  to  reproach   your   own   self,  could 

you  see  it !" 

VI. 

In  the  silence  which  foUow'd  the  last  word  she  said. 
In  the   heave  of  his   chest,  and  the  droop  of  his 

head. 
Poor  Lucile  mark'd  her  words  had  sufficed  to  im- 
part 
A  new  germ  of  motion  and  life  to  that  heart 
Of  which  he  himself  had  so  recently  spoken 
As  dead  to  emotion — exhausted,  or  broken  ! 
New  fears  would  awaken  new  hopes  in  his  life. 
In  the  husband  indifferent  no  more  to  the  wife 
She  already,  as  she  had  foreseen,  could  discover 
That  Matilda  had    gam'd,    at    her    hands,    a    new 

lover. 
So  after  some  moments  of  silence,  whose  spell 
They  both  felt,  she  extended  her  hand  to  him.  .  .  . 


VII. 


Well: 


226 


LUCILE. 


"  Lucile,"  he  replied,  as  that  soft  quiet  hand 
In    his  own  he    clasp'd  warmly,    "  T   both     under- 
stand 
And  obey  you." 

•'  Thank  Heaven  !'"   she  inurinur'd. 

••  O  yet. 
One  word,  I  beseech  you  !     I  cannot  forget," 
He  exclaim 'd,  "  we  are  parting  for  life.     You  have 

shown 
My  pathway  to  me  :  but  say.  what  is  \our  own  }" 
The  calmness  with  which  until  then  she  had  spoken 
In    a    moment     seem'd     strangely    and    suddenly 

broken. 
She  turn'd  from  him  nervously,  hurriedly. 

"Nay, 
1  know  not,"  she  murmur'd,  "  I  follow  the  way 
Heaven  leads  me  ;   I  cannot  foresee  to  what  end. 
I  know  only  that  far,  far  away  it  must  tend 
From  all   places  in  which  we  have  met.  or  might 

meet. 
Far  away  ! — onward — upward  I" 

A  smile  strange  and  sweet 
As  the  incense  that  rises  from  some  sacred  cup 
And  mi.xes  with   music,   stole  forth,  and   breathed 

up 
Her  whole  face,  with  those  words. 

"  Wheresoever  it  be, 
May  all  gentlest  angels  attend  you  !"  sigh'd  he, 
"  And  bear  my  heart's  blessing  wherever  you  are  !" 
And  her  hand,  with  emotion,  he  kiss'd. 


w 


"You  have  shown 
My  pathway  to  me  :  but  say,  what  is  your  own  ?"— I'age  226. 


"J?-    .    fc/.^ 


L  UCILE. 


227 


From  afar 
That  kiss  was,  alas  !  by  Matilda  beheld 
With  far  other  emotions  :  her  young  bosom  swell 'd, 
And  her  young  cheek  with  anger  was  crimson'd. 

The  Duke 
Adroitly  attracted  towards  it  her  look 
By  a  faint  but  significant  smile. 

X. 

Much  ill-construed, 

Renown'd    Bisho])    Berkeley    has    fully,    for    one. 

strew'd 
With  arguments  page  upon  page  to  teach  folks 
That  the  world  they  inhabit  is  only  a  hoax. 
But  it  surely  is  hard,  since  we    can't  do  without 

them, 
That   our   senses  should   make  us   so   oft   wish  to 

doubt  them  ! 


ca:;to  hi. 

I. 
When   first   the   red   savage  calFd   Man   strode,  a 

king. 
Through  the  wilds  of  creation— the  very  first  thmg 
That  his  naked  intelligence  taught  him  to  feel 
Was  the  shame  of  himself ;  and  the  wish  to  con- 
ceal 
Was  the  first  step  in  art.     From  the  apron  which 
Eve 


\^^ 


i 


228 


LUC  I  I.E. 


In  Eden  sat  down  out  of  hg-leaves  to  weave, 
To  the  furbelow'd  flounce  and  the  broad  crinoline 
Of  niv  ladv  .  .   .  you  all  know    of  course  wht)m  I 

mean  .  .  . 
'I'his  art  of  conceahnent  has  greatly  increas'd. 
A  whole  world  lies  cryptic  in  each  human  breast ; 
And  that  drama  of  passions  as  old  as  the  hills, 
Which  the  moral  of  all  men  in  each  man  fulfils, 
Is  only  reveal'd  now  and  then  to  our  eyes 
In  the  newspaper-files  and  the  courts  of  assize. 


In  the  group  seen  so  lately  in  sunlight  assembled, 
'Mid  those  walks  over  which   the  laburnum-bough 

trembled. 
And  the  deep-bosom'd  lilac,  emparadising 
The  haunts  where  the  blackbird  and  thrush  flit  and 

sing. 
The  keenest  eye   could  but   have  seen,  and   seen 

only. 
A  circle  of  friends,  minded  not  to  leave  lonely 
The  bird  on  the  bough,  or  the  bee  on  the  blossom  ; 
Conversing  at  ease  in  the  garden's  green  bosom, 
Like  those  who,  when    Florence  was   yet   in    her 

glories. 
Cheated    death    and    kill'd    time    with    Boccaccian 

stories. 
But  at  length  the  long   twilight  lUore  deeply  grew 

shaded, 
And  the  fair  night  the  rosy  horizon  invaded. 
And  the  bee  in  the  blossom,  the  bird  on  the  bough, 


M'. 


L  UCILE. 


229 


Through    the    sliadowy    garden    were  slumbering 

now. 
The  trees  only,  o'er  every  unvisited  walk. 
Began  on  a  sudden  to  whisper  and  talk, 
And,  as  each  little  sprightly  and  garrulous  leaf 
Woke  up  with  an  evident  sense  of  relief, 
They  all  seem'd  to  be   saying  .  .  .  "Once    more 

we're  alone, 
And,    thank    Heaven,    those  tiresome    people   are 

gone  !" 

HI. 
Through  the  deep  blue  concave  of  the  luminous  air, 
Large,  loving,  and  languid,  the  stars  here  and  there. 
Like   the   eyes  of   shy  passionate    women,    look'd 

down 
O'er   the  dim   world  whose  sole  tender  light    was 

their  own. 
When  Matilda,  alone,  from  her  chamber  descended, 
Andenter'd  the  garden,  unseen,  unattended. 
Her   forehead   was   aching   and    parch'd.   and    her 

breast 
By  a  vague  inexpressible  sadness  oppress'd  : 
A  sadness  which  led  her,  she  scarcely  knew  how, 
And  she  scarcely  knew  why  .  .  .  (save,  indeed,  that 

just  now 
The  house,  out  of  which  with  a  gasp  she  had  tied 
Half-stifled,  seem'd  ready  to  sink  on  her  head)  .  .  . 
Out  into  the  night  air,  the  silence,  the  bright 
Boundless  starlight,  the  cool  isolation  of  night ! 
Her  husband  that    day  had  look'd  once  in  her  face. 
And  press'd  both  her  hands  in  a  silent  embrace. 


230 


LUCILE. 


And  repronchfuUx  noticed  her  recent  dejection 
\Vitii  a  smile  of  kind  wonder  and  tacit  affection. 
He,  of  late  so  indifferent  and  listless  I  ...  at  last 
Was  he  startled   and  awed  by  the   change   which 

had  pass'd 
O'er    the   once    radiant   face    of    his    vountc    wife.^ 

Whence  came 
'J'hat    long    look  of   solicitous    fondness  "■:...  the 

same 
Look  and  language  of  quiet  affection — the  look 
And  the  language,  alas  !  which  so  often  she  took 
For  pure  love  in  the  simple  repose  of  its  purity — 
Her  own  heart  thus  lull'd  to  a  fatal  security  ! 
Ha  !  would  he  deceive  her  again  by  this  kindness  } 
Had  she  been.  then.  O  fool !  in  her  innocent  blind- 
ness 
The  sport  of  transparent  illusion.?  ah  folly  ! 
And  that  feeling,  so  tranquil,  so  happy,  so  holy. 
She  had  taken,  till  then,  in  the  heart,  not  alone 
Of  her  husband,  but  also,  indeed,  in  her  own. 
For  true  love,  nothing  else,  after  all,  did  it  jirove 
Hut  a  friendship  profanely    familiar  r 

'■  And  love  't  .  .  . 
What  was  love,  then  }  .  .  .  not  calm,  not  secure- 
scarcely  kind  ! 
l)Ut  in  one,  all  intensest  emotions  combined  : 
l.ife  and  death  :  pain  and  rapture." 

Thus  wandering  astray. 
Led  by  doubt,  through  the  darkness  she  wander'd 

away. 
All  silently  crossing,  recrossing  the  night, 


I 


*  ••  :'    -Si 


t 


\ 


LUCILE. 


231 


^^iar^i; 


With  faim,  ineleoric,   miraculous  light. 

The  swift-shootiiig  stars  through  the  infinite  burn'd. 

And  into  the  infinite  ever  return 'd. 

And  silently  o'er  the  obscure  and  unknown 

In  the  heart  of  Matilda  there  darted  and  shone 

Thoughts,  enkindling    like    meteors    the    deeps,  to 

expire, 
Leaving  traces  behind  them  of  tremulous  fire. 

IV. 

She  enter'd  that  arbor  of  lilacs,  in  which 
The  dark  air  with  odors  hung  heavy  and  rich, 
Like  a  soul  that  grows  faint  with  desire. 

T  was  the  place 
In  which  she  so  lately  had  sat.  face  to  face 
With    her   husband,  —  and  her.  the   pale  stranger 

detested. 
Whose  presence  her  heart  like  a  plague  had  infested. 
The  whole  spot  with  evil  remembrance  was  haunted. 
Through  the  darkness  there  rose  on  the  heart  which 

it  daunted 
Each  drean,'  detail  of  that  desolate  day. 
So  full,  and  yet  so  incomplete.     Far  away 
The  acacias  were  muttering,  like  mischievous  elves, 
The  whole  story  over  again  to  themselves. 
Each  word,— and    each   word  was  a  wound  !      By 

degrees 
Her  memorv  mingled  its  voice  with  the  trees. 


Like  the  whisper  Eve  heard,  when  she  paused  by 
the  root 


I 


232 


L  UCILE. 


Of  the  sad   tree  of   knowledge,    and    gazed  on  its 

fruit, 
To  the  heart  of  Matilda  the  trees  seem'd    to  hiss 
Wild     instructions,    revealing     man's     last     right. 

which  is 

The  right  of  reprisals. 

An  image  uncertain, 

And  vague,  dimly  shaped  itself  forth  on  the  curtain 

Of  the  darkness  around  her.  It    came,  and  it  went  ; 

Through  her  senses  a  faint  sense  of  peril  it  sent : 

It  pass'd  and  repass'd  her  ;  it  went  and  it  came 

Forever  returning  ;  forever  the  same  ; 

And  forever  more  clearly  defined  ;  till  her  eyes 

In  that  outline  obscure  could  at  last  recognize 

The  man  to  whose  image,  the  more  and  the  more 

That  her  heart,  now  aroused  from  its  calm  sleep  of 

yore, 
From     her    husband    detach'd    itself   slowly,  with 

pain. 
Her  thoughts  had  return'd,  and  return'd  to.  again. 
As  though  by  some  secret  indefinite  law, — 
The  vigilant  Frenchman — Eugene  de  Luvois  I 

VI. 

A  light  sound  behind  her.    She  trembled.    By  some 
Night-witchcraft  her  vision  a  fact  had  become. 
On  a  sudden  she  felt,  without  turning  to  view. 
That  a  man  was   approaching   behind  her.     She 

knew 
By  the  fiuttering  pulse  which  she  could  not  restrain. 
And    the   quick-beating   heart,  that   this   man  was 

Eugene. 


I>'l 


1^- 

'1^ 


L  UCILE. 


233 


Her  first  instinct  was  flight ;  but  she  felt  her  slight 

foot 
As  heavy  as  though  to  the  soil  it  had  root. 
And  the    Duke's  voice  retain'd   her,  like  fear  in  a 

dream. 

VII. 

"  Ah,  lady  !  in  life  there  are  meetings  which  seem 
Like  a  fate.     Dare  I  think  like  a  sympathy  too  } 
Yet  what  else  can  I  bless  for  this  vision  of  you  } 
Alone  with  my  thoughts,  on  this  starlighted  lawn, 
By  an  instinct  resistless,  I  felt  myself  drawn 
To  revisit  the  memories  left  in  the  place 
Where  so  lately  this  evening  I  look'd  in  your  face. 
And  I  find,  — you,  yourself  — my  own  dream  ! 

"  Can  there  be 
In  this  world  one  thought  common  to  you  and  to 

me.' 
If  so,  .  .  .   I,who  deem'd  but  a  moment  ago 
My  heart  uncompanion'd,  save  only  by  woe, 
.Should    indeed    be    more    bless'd  than    I    dare   to 

believe — 
— Ah,  but  ime  word,   but   one    from   your  lips   to 

receive  "... 

Interrupting  him  quickly,  she  murmur'd,  "  I  sought. 
Here,  a  moment  of  solitude,  silence,  and  thought. 
Which  I  needed."  .  .  . 

"  Lives  solitude  only  for  one  } 
Must  its  charm  by  my  presence  so  soon  be  undone .' 
Ah,    cannot    two    share    it .'     What    needs    it    for 
this.'— 


I 


234 


LUCILE. 


The  same  thoug-ht  in  both   hearts,  — be  it  sorrow  or 

bliss  ; 
If  my  heart  be  the  refiex  of  yours,  lady — you, 
Are  you  not  yet  alone,  — even  though  we  be  two  ?" 

"  For  that,'"  .  .  .  said   Matilda,  ..."  needs  were, 

you  should  read 
What  I  have  in  mv  heart  "  .  . 

"  Think  you,  lady,  indeed, 
You  are  yet  of  that  age  when  a  woman  conceals 
In  her  heart  so  completely  whatever  she  feels 
From   the   heart  of  the   man  whom   it   interests  to 

know 
And  find  out  what  that  feeling  may  be  ?  Ah,  not  so. 
Lady  Alfred  !     Forgive  me  that  in  it  I  look. 
But  I  read  in  your  heart  as  I  read  in  a  book." 
"  Well,  Duke  !  and  what  read  you  within  it  ?  unless 
It  be,  of  a  truth,  a  profound  weariness. 
And  some  sadness  ?" 

"  No  doubt.     To  all  facts  there  are  laws. 
The  effect  has  its  cause,  and  I  mount  to  the  cause." 

\'  1 11 . 
Matilda  shrank  back  ;  for  she  suddenly  found 
That   a   finger   was    press'd    on  the   yet    bleeding 

wound 
She,   herself,   had    but   that    day  perceived    in    her 

breast. 

"You  are  sad,"    .  .  .   said  the  Duke  (and  that  tinger 

yet  press'd 
With  a  cruel  persistence  the  wound  it  made  bleed)  — 
•  You  are  sad,  Lad\-  Alfred,  because   the   first  need 


< 

\ 


^ 


Z  UCILE. 


235 


Of  a  )  oun^^  and  a  beautiful  woman  is  to  be 
Beloved,  and  to  love.     You  are  sad  :  for  you  see 
That  you  are  not  beloved,  as  you  deem'd  that  you 

were  : 
You    are    sad  :    for  that   knowledge  hath  left  you 

aware 
That  you  have  not  yet  loved,  though  )0U  thought 

that  you  had. 
Yes,  yes  !  .  '.  .  you  are  sad— because  knowledge  is 

sad  !" 
He  could  not  have  read  more  profoundly  her  heart. 
"  What  gave  you,"  she  cried,  with  a  terrified  start, 
•'  Such  strange  power  ?'    .  .  . 

••  To  read  in  your  thoughts  ?"  he  exclaim'd. 
"  O  lady,— a  love,  deep,  profound— be  it  blamed 
Or  rejected,— a  love,  true,  intense— such,  at  least. 
As  you,  and  >  ou  only,  could  wake  in  my  breast !" 

"  Hush,  hush  !  .  .  .  1   beseech   you  .  .  .  for  pity  1" 

she  gasp'd. 
Snatching   hurriedly    from    him    the  hand  he   had 

clasp'd 
In  her  effort  instinctive  to  tly  from  the  spot. 

•'For  pity?"  ...  he  echoed,  "for  pity!  and  what 
Is  the  pity  you  owe  him  ?  his  pity  for  you  ! 
He,  the  lord  of  a  life,  fresh  as  new-fallen  dew  ! 
The  guardian  and  guide  of  a  woman,  young,  fair, 
And  matchless  !  (whose  happiness  did  he  not  swear 
To    cherish    through    life?)  he   neglects   her  — for 
whom  ? 


r 


\ 


II 


236 


L  UCILE. 


For  a  fairer  than  she  ?     No  !  the  rose  in  the  bloom 
Of  that  beauty  which,  even  when  hidd'n,  can  prevail 
To  keep  sleepless  with  song  the  aroused  nightin- 
gale, 
Is  not  fairer ;  for  even  in  the  pure  world  of  tiowers 
Her  symbol  is  not,  and  this  poor  world  of  ours 
Has  no  second  Matilda  !  For  whom  ?  Let  that  pass ! 
'T  is  not  I,  't  is  not  you,  that  can  name  her,  alas  I 
And  /  dare  not  question  or  judge  her.     But  why. 
Why  cherish  the  cause  of  your  own  misery  ? 
Why  think  of  one,  lady,  who  thinks  not  of  you  ? 
Why  be  bound  by  a  chain  which  himself  he  breaks 

through  ? 
And  why,  since  you  have  but  to  stretch  forth  your 

hand. 
The  love  which  you  need  and  deserve  to  command. 
Why  shrink  ?     Why  repel  it  ?" 

"  O  hush,  sir  !  O  hush  !" 
Cried  Matilda,  as  though  her  whole  heart  were  one 

blush. 
"  Cease,  cease,  I  conjure  you,  to  trouble  my  life  I 
Is  not  Alfred  your  friend  ?  and  am  I  not  his  wife  .^" 

IX. 

"  And  have  I  not,  lady,"  he  answer'd, ..."  respected 
His  rights  as  a  friend,  till  himself  he  neglected 
Your  rights  as  a  wife .'     Do  you  think  't  is  alone 
For  three  days  I   have   loved   you  .''     My   lo\e  may 

have  grown, 
I  admit,  day  by  day,  since  I  first  felt  your  eyes. 
In  watching  their  tears,  and  in  sounding  your  sighs. 


i% 


.^S^!^  ^ 


L  UCILE. 


237 


Til 


r.ut.  O  lad\-  !  I  loved  you  before  I  believed 

That   your    eyes    ever   wept,    or   your    heart   ever 

grieved. 
Then   I  deem'd  you  were  happy  —  I  deem'd  you 

possess'd 
All  the  love  you  deserved,— and  I  hid  in  my  breast 
My  own  love,  till  this  hour— when  I  could  not  but 

feel 
Your  grief  gave  me  the  right  my  own  grief  to  re- 
veal ! 
1  knew,  years  ago,  of  the  singular  power 
Which  Lucile  o'er  your  husband  possess'd. 

the  hour 
In  which  he  reveal'd  it  himself,  did  I,— say  !— 
By  a  word,  or  a  look,  such  a  secret  betray  ? 
No  !  no  !  do  me  justice.     I  never  have  spoken 
Of  this  poor  heart   of   mine,  till   all    ties   he  had 

broken 
Which  bound  j7;//r  heart  to  him.     And  now— now, 

that  his  love 
For  another  hath  left  your  own  heart  free  to  rove, 
What  is  it,— even  now,— that  I  kneel  to  implore 

you  ? 
Only  this.  Lady  Alfred  !  ...  to  let  me  adore  you 
Unblamed  :  to  have  confidence  in  me  :  to  spend 
On  me  not  one  thought,   save  to  think  me  your 

friend. 
Let  me  speak  to  you,— ah.  let    me    speak  to  you 

still ! 
Hush  to  silence  my  words  in  your  heart,  if  you  will. 
I  ask  no  response  :  I  ask  only  your  leave 


.^s^^.>  -^^^^^ 


238 


Z  UCILE. 


To  live  yet  in   your  life,  and  to  grieve  when  you 


grieve 


\ 


^ 


3^ 


"Leave  me,  leave  me!"  .  .  .    she  gasp'd,   with  a 

voice  thick  and  low 
From  emotion.     "  For  pity's  sake,  Duke,  let  me  go  I 
I  feel  that  to  blame  we  should  both  of  us  be. 
Did  I  linger." 

"  To  blame  ?  yes,  no  doubt  !"  .  .  .  answer'd  he, 
•'  If    the    love  of   your   husband,   in    bringing   you 

peace. 
Had  forbidden  you  hope.     But   he   signs   your  re- 
lease 
By  the  hand  of  another.     One  moment !  but  one  ! 
Who  knows  when,  alas  !  I  may  see  you  alone 
As  to-night   I   have  seen   you .'  or  when   we   may 

meet 
As  to-night  we  have  met  ?  when,  entranced  at  your 

feet. 
As  in  this  blessed  hour,  1  may  ever  avow 
The  thoughts  which  are  pining  for  utterance  now  .^" 
"Duke!    Duke!"  .    .    .    she  exclaim 'd    .    .    .    "for 

Heaven's  sake  let  me  go  ! 
It  is  late.     In  the  house  they  will  miss  me,  I  know. 
We  must  not  be  seen  here  together.     The  night 
Is  advancing.     1  feel  overwhelm 'd  with  affright  ! 
It  is  time  to  return  to  my  lord." 

"  To  your  lord  ?" 
He  repeated,  with  lingering  reproach  on  the  word, 
"  To   vour  lord  ?  do  you  think  he  awaits  you,  in 

truth  ? 


Z  UCILE. 


239 


r'^^Bi 


Is  he  anxiously  missing  your  presence,  forsooth  ? 
Return  to  your  lord  !  .  .  .  his  restraint  to  renew  ? 
And  hinder  the  glances  which  are  not  for  you  ? 
No,   no  !  ...  at  this  moment   his  looks   seek  the 

face 
Of  another  !  another  is  there  in  your  place  ! 
Another  consoles  him  !  another  receives 
The  soft  speech  which   from   silence  your  absence 

relieves  !" 

XI. 

"  You  mistake,  sir !"  .  .   .  responded   a  voice,  calm, 

severe, 
And    sad,  ..."  You  mistake,    sir  !   that    other  is 

here." 
Eugene  and  Matilda  both  started. 

"  Lucile  !" 
With  a  half-stifled  scream,  as  she  felt  herself  reel 
From  the  place  where  she  stood,  cried  Matilda. 

"  Ho,  oh  ! 
What!    eaves-dropping,   madam.''"  .  .   .  the  Duke 

cried  ..."  And  so 
You  were  listening.'" 

"  Say,  rather,"  she  said,  "that  I  heard, 
Without  wishing  to  hear  it,  that  infamous  word, — 
Heard -and  therefore  reply." 

"  Belle  Comtesse,"  said  the  Duke, 
With  concentrated  wrath  in  the  savage  rebuke, 
Which    betray'd  that  he   felt    himself   baffled  .  .  . 

"  you  know 
That  your  place  is  not  here!' 


240 


L  UCILE. 


"  Duke,"  she  answer'd  him  slow, 
"  My  place  is  wherever  my  duty  is  clear  ; 
And  therefore  my  place,  at  this  moment,  is  here 

0  lady,  this  morning  my  place  was  beside 

Your   husband,    because    (as    she    said    this    sht- 
sigh'd) 

1  felt  that  from  folly  fast  growing  to  crime — 

The  crime  of  self-blindness — Heaven  yet  spared  me 

time 
To  save  for  the  love  of  an  innocent  wife 
All  that  such  love  deserved  in  the  heart  and  the  life 
Of  the    man    to  whose   heart  and    whose  life    you 

alone 
Can  with  safety  confide  the  pure  trust  of  your  own." 

She  turn'd  to  Matilda,  and  lightly  laid  on  her 
Her  soft  quiet  hand.  .  .  . 

"  'T  is,  O  lady,  the  honor 
Which  that  man  has  confided  to  you,  that,  in  spite 
Of  his  friend,  I  now  trust  I  may  yet  save  to-night — 
Save  for  both  of  you,  lady  I  for  yours  I  revere  : 
Due  de  Luvois,  what   say  you? — my  place  is  not 
here?" 

xn. 

And,  so  saying,  the  hand  of  Matilda  she  caught, 
Wound  one  arm  round  her  waist  unresisted,   and 

sought 
Gently,  softly,  to  draw  her  away  from  the  spot. 
The    Duke  stood   confounded,    and    foUow'd  them 

not. 
But  not  yet  the  house  had  they  reach'dwhen  LuciU- 


^ 


L  UCILE. 


241 


¥. 


Her  tender  and  delicate  burden  could  feel 

Sink    and  falter   beside    her.     Oh,  then   she    knelt 

down, 
Flung  her  arms  round  Matilda,  and   press'd  to  her 

own 
The  poor  bosom  beating  against  her. 

The  moon, 
Bright,    breathless,   and    buoyant,  and    brimful    of 

June, 
Floated  up  from  the  hillside,  sloped  over  the  vale. 
And  poised  herself   loose  in   mid-heaven,  with  one 

pale. 
Minute,  scintillescent,  and  tremulous  star 
Swinging  under  her  globe  like  a  wizard-lit  car, 
Thus  to  each  of  those  women  revealing  the  face 
Of  the    other.      Each   bore   on    her   features   the 

trace 
Of  a  vivid  emotion.     A  deep  inward  shame 
The  cheek  of  Matilda  had  flooded  with  flame. 
With  her  enthusiastic  emotion,  Lucile 
Trembled  visibly  yet  ;  for  she  could  not  but  feel 
That  a  heavenly  hand  was  upon  her  that  night. 
And  it  touch 'd  her  pure  brow  to  a  heavenly  light. 
"In  the   name  of  your  husband,  dear   lady,"  she 

said  ; 
"  In  the  name  of  your  mother,    take   heart  !     Lift 

your  head. 
For  those  blushes  are  noble.     Alas  !  do  not  trust 
To  that  maxim  of  virtue  made  ashes  and  dust. 
That   the  fault    of   the   husband    can    cancel    the 

wife's. 


^^^mmf 


242 


Z  UCILE. 


•ifrt. 


yk 


Take  heart  !  and  take  refuge  and  strength  in  your 

life's 
Pure  silence,— there,  kneel,   pray,   and   hope,  weep, 

and  wait !" 
"Saved,  Lucile  !"    sobb'd   Matilda,  "but    saved   to 

what  fate  ? 
Tears,  prayers, yes!  not  hopes." 

"  Hush  !"  the  sweet  voice  replied. 
"  Fool'd  away  by  a  fancy,  again  to  your  side 
Must  your  husband  return.     Doubt  not  this.     And 

return 
For  the  love  you  can  give,  with  the  love  that  you 

yearn 
To  receive,  lady.    What  was  it  chill'd  you  both  now  .^ 
Not  the  absence  of  love,  but  the  ignorance  how 
Love  is  nourish 'd  by  love.     Well!  henceforth  you 

will  i^rove 
Your  heart  worthy  of  love, — since  it  knows  how  to 

love." 

XIII. 

"  What  gives  you  such  power  over  me,  that  I  feel 
Thus  drawn  to  obey  you  .'    What  are  you,  Lucile  ?" 
Sigh'd  Matilda,  and  lifted  her  eyes  to  the  face 
Of  Lucile. 

There  pass'd  suddenly  through  it  the  trace 
Of  deep  sadness  ;  and  o'er  that  fair  forehead  came 

down 
A  shadow  which  yet  was  too  sweet  for  a  frown. 
"  The  pupil  of  sorrow,  perchance  "  .  .  .  she  replied. 
"  Of  sorrow  ?"  Matilda  exclaim'd  .  .   .  "  O  confide 
To  my  heart  your  affliction.    In  all  you  made  known 


1 


"  And  here,  side  by  side, 
Hand  in  hand,  the  two  women  sat  down."— Page  243. 


S?^T**V^ 


-f^^^Mk. 


L  UCILE. 


243 


I  should  find   some  instruction,  no   doubt,  for   my 
own  !" 

"  And  I  some  consolation,  no  doubt  ;  for  the  tears 
{^f  another  have  not  tlow'd  for  me  many  years." 

It  was  then  that  Matilda  herself  seized  the  hand 
Of  Lucile  in  her  own,  and  uplifted  her  ;  and 
Thus  together  they  enter'd  the  house. 

XIV. 

'T  was  the  room 
Of  Matilda. 

The  languid  and  delicate  gloom 

Of  a  lamp  of  pure  white  alabaster,  aloft 

From  the  ceiling  suspended,  around  it  slept  soft. 

The  casement  oped  into  the  garden.     The  pale 

Cool    moonlight    stream'd    through    it.      One    lone 

nightingale 

Sung  aloof  in  the  laurels. 

And  here,  side  by  side. 

Hand  in  hand,  the  two  women  sat  down  undescried. 

Save  by  guardian  angels. 

As,  when,  sparkling  yet 
From    the    rain,  that,  with    drops  that    are    jewels, 

leaves  wet 
The  bright  head  it  humbles,  a  young  rose  inclines 
To  some  pale  lily  near  it,  the  fair  vision  shines 
As    one  fiower  with  two    faces,  in    hush'd,   tearful 

speech. 
Like  the  showery  whispers  of  flowers,  each  to  each 
Link'd,  and  leaning  together,  so  loving,  so  fair, 
So  united,  yet  diverse,  the  two  women  there 


% 


244 


LUCILE. 


Look'd,  indeed,  like  two  flowers  upon  one  drooping 

stem. 
In  the  soft  light  that  tenderly  rested  on  them. 
All    that  soul  said  to   soul  in    that   chamber,  who 

knows  ? 
All  that  heart  gain'd  from  heart  ? 

Leave  the  lily,  the  rose 
Undisturb'd  with  their  secret  within  them.  For  who 
To  the  heart  of  the  flow'ret  can  follow  the  dew? 
A  night  full  of  stars  !     O'er  the  silence,  unseen, 
The  footsteps  of  sentinel  angels,  between 
Tlie   dark  land  and  deep  sky  were  moving.     You 

heard 
Pass'd  from   earth  up  to  heaven  the  happy  watch- 
word 
Which  brighten'd  the  stars  as  amongst  them  it  fell 
From    earth's  heart,  which    it   eased   ..."  All    is 
well  !  all  is  well !" 


CANTO   IV. 
I. 

The    Poets    pour   wine;    and,  when   'tis    new,   all 

decry  it. 
But,  once  let  it  be  old,  eveiy  trifler  must  try  it. 
And    Polonius,    who   praises    no  wine   that  's    not 

Massic, 
Complains  of  my  verse,  that  my  verse  is  not  classic. 
And  Miss  Tilburina,  who  sings,  and  not  badly, 
My  earlier  verses,  sighs  "  Commonplace  sadly  !  " 


I 


<?^^ 


L  UCILE. 


245 


I 


As  for  you,  O  Polonius,  you  vex  me  but  slightly, 
But  you,  Tilburina,  your  eyes  beam  so  brightly 
In  despite  of  their  languishing  looks,  on  my  word, 
That  to  see  you  look  cross  I  can  scarcely  afford. 
Yes  !  the  silliest  woman  that  smiles  on  a  bard 
Better  far  than  Longinus  himself  can  reward 
The  appeal  to  her  feelings  of  which  she  approves  ; 
And  the  critics  I  most  care  to  please  are  the  Loves. 

Alas,  friend  !  what  boots  it,  a  stone  at  his  head 

And  a  brass  on  his  breast,— when  a  man  is  once 
dead  .'* 

Ay  !  were  fame    the    sole   guerdon,  poor   guerdon 
were  then 

Theirs  who,  stripping  life  bare,  stand  forth  models 
for  men. 

The  reformer's  .'—a  creed  by  posterity  learnt 

A  century  after  its  author  is  burnt ! 

The  poet's  ?— a  laurel  that  hides  the  bald  brow 

It  hath  blighted  !    The  painter's  ?— ask  Raphael  now 

■Which  Madonna  's  authentic  !    The  statesman's  ?— 
a  name  ' 

For  parties  to  blacken,  or  boys  to  declaim  ! 

The  soldier's  ?— three  lines  on  the  cold  Abbey  pave- 
ment ! 

Were  this  all  the   life  of   the  wise   and  the   brave 
meant. 

All  it  ends  in,  thrice  better,  Neaera,  it  were 
Unregarded  to  sport  with  thine  odorous  hair. 
Untroubled  to  lie  at  thy  feet  in  the  shade 
And  be  loved,  while  the  roses  yet  bloom  overhead, 


:i<M 


f 


V,  'r 


<^\ 


246 


L  UCILE. 


Than  to  sit  by  the  lone  hearth,  and  think  the  long 

thought, 
A  severe,  sad,  blind  schoolmaster,  envied  for  nought 
Save  the  name  of  John  Milton  I     For  all   men.  in- 
deed, 
Who  in  some  choice  edition  may  graciously  read. 
With  fair  illustration,  and  erudite  note. 
The  song  which  the  poet  in  bitterness  wrote, 
Beat  the  poet,  and  notably  beat  him,  in  this — 
The  joy  of  the  genius  is  theirs,  whilst  they  miss 
The  grief  of  the  man  :  Tasso's  song — not  his  mad- 
ness I 
Dante's  dreams — not  his  waking  to  exile  and  sad- 
ness I 
Milton's  music — but  not  Milton's  blindness  I  .  .  . 

Yet  rise, 
My  Milton,  and  answer,  with  those  noble  eves 
Which  the  glory  of  heaven  hath  blinded  to  earth  I 
Say — the  life,  in  the  living  it,  savors  of  worth  : 
That  the  deed,  in  the  doing  it,  reaches  its  aim : 
That  the  fact  has  a  value  apart  from  the  fame : 
That  a  deeper  delight,  in  the  mere  labor,  pays 
-Scorn  of  lesser  delights,  and  laborious  davs  : 
And  Shakespeare,  though  all  Shakespeare's  writings 

were  lost. 
And  his  genius,  though  never  a  trace  of  it  crossed 
Posterity's  path,  not  the  less  would  have  dwelt 
In  the  isle  with  Miranda,  with  Hamlet  have  felt 
All  that  Hamlet  hath  utter'd,  and  haply  where,  pure 
On  its  death-bed,  wrong'd  Love  lay.  have    moan'd 
with  the  .Moor  I 


\ 


C 


^1 


LUCILE. 


247 


When  Lord  Alfred  that  night  to  the  salon  return'd 
He  found  it  deserted.     The  lamp  dimly  burn'd 
As  though  half  out  of  humor  to  find  itself  there 
Forced  to   light  for  no  purpose  a  room  that  was 

bare. 
He  sat  down  by  the  window  alone.     Never  yet 
Did  the  heavens  a  lovelier  evening  beget 
Since  Latona's  bright  childbed  that  bore  the  new 

moon  ! 
The  dark  world  lay  still,  in  a  sort  of  sweet  swoon, 
Wide  open  to  heaven  ;  and  the  stars  on  the  stream 
Were  trembling  like  eyes  that  are  loved   on   the 

dream 
Of  a  lover  ;  and  all  things  were  glad  and  at  rest 
Save  the  unquiet  heart  in  his  own  troubled  breast. 
He  endeavor'd  to  think— an  unwonted  employment. 
Which  appear'd  to  afford  him  no  sort  of  enjoyment. 

III. 
••  Withdraw  into  yourself.     But,  if  peace  you  seek 

there  for, 
Your  reception,  beforehand,  be  sure  to  prepare  for," 
Wrote  the  tutor  of  Nero  ;  who  wrote,  be  it  said, 
Better  far  than  he  acted— but  peace  to  the  dead  ! 
He  bled  for  his  pupil  :  what  more  could  he  do? 
But  Lord  Alfred,  when  into  himself  he  withdrew. 
P^ound  all  there  in    disorder.     For  more   than    an 

hour 
He  sat  with  his  head  droop'd  like  some  stubborn 

flower 


LUCILE. 


Beaten  down  by  the  rush  of  the    rain — with    such 

force 
Did  the  thick,  gushing  thoughts  hold  upon  him  the 

course 
Of  their  sudden  descent,  rapid,  rushing,  and   dim. 
From  the  cloud  that  had  darken'd  the  evening  for 

him. 
At  one  moment  he  rose — rose  and  open'd  the  door. 
And  wistfully  look'd  down  the  dark  corridor 
Toward  the  room  of  Matilda.     Anon,  with  a  sigh 
Of  an  incomplete  purpose,  he  crept  quietly 
Back  again  to  his  place  in  a  sort  of  submission 
To  doubt,  and  return'd  to  his  former  position — 
That  loose  fall  of  the  arms,  that  dull  droop  of  the 

face. 
And  the  eye  vaguely  fix'd  on  impalpable  space. 
The  dream,  which  till  then  had  been  lulling  his  life. 
As  once  Circe  the  winds,  had  seal'd  thought ;  and 

his  wife 
And  his  home  for  a  time  he  had  quite,  like  Ulysses. 
Forgotten  ;  but  now  o'er  the  troubled  abysses 
Of  the  spirit  w^ithin  him,  asolian,  forth  leapt 
To  their  freedom  new-found,  and  resistlessly  swept 
.\\\  his  heart  into  tumult,  the  thoughts  which  had 

been 
Long  pent  up  in  their  mystic  recesses  unseen. 


% 


I 


How  long  he  thus  sat  there,  himself   he  knew  not, 
Till  he  started,  as  though  he  was  suddenly  shot, 
To  the  sound  of  a  voice  too  familiar  to  doubt. 


,^> 


LUCILE. 


249 


Which  was  making  some  noise  in  the  passage  with- 
out. 
A  sound  English  voice,  with  a  round  EngUsh  accent, 
Which  the  scared  German  echoes  resentfully  back 

sent ; 
The  complaint  of  a  much  disappointed  cab-driver 
Mingled  with  it,  demanding  some  ultimate  stiver  ; 
Then,  the  heavy  and  hurried  approach  of  a  boot 
Which  reveal'd  by  its  sound  no  diminutive  foot : 
And  the  door  was  flung  suddenly  open,  and  on 
The  threshold  Lord  Alfred  by  bachelor  John 
Was  seized  in  that  sort  of  affectionate  rage  or 
Frenzy  of  hugs  which  some  stout  Ursa  Major 
On  some  lean  Ursa  Minor  would  doubtless  bestow 
With  a  warmth  for  which  only  starvation  and  snow 
Could  render  one  grateful.     As  soon  as  he  could. 
Lord  Alfred  contrived  to  escape,  nor  be  food 
Any  more  for  those  somewhat  voracious  embraces. 
Then  the  two  men  sat   down    and  scann'd   each- 

other's  faces ; 
And  Alfred  could  see  that  his  cousin  was  taken 
With    unwonted    emotion.      The    hand   that    had 

shaken 
His  own  trembled  somewhat.     In  truth  he  descried. 
At  a  glance,  something  wrong. 


•'  What's  the  matter  ?"  he  cried. 
What  have  you  to  tell  me  ?" 


John. 

What  !  have  you  not  heard  ? 


250 


Heard  what  ? 


L  UCILE. 

Alfred. 

John. 
This  sad  business- 


Alfred. 

I  ?  no,  not  a  word. 

John. 
You  received  my  last  letter  } 

Alfred. 

I  think  so.     If  not, 
What  then  ? 

John. 
You  have  acted  upon  it .'' 

Alfred. 

On  what  ? 
John. 
The  advice  that  I  gave  you — 

Alfred. 

Advice  ? — let  me  see  ! 
You  always  are  giving  advice.  Jack,  to  me. 
About  Parliament,  was  it  .•' 

John. 

Hang  Parliament  !  no, 
The  Bank,  the  Bank,  Alfred  ! 

Alfred. 

What  Bank  > 

John. 

Heavens  !  I  know 
You  are  careless  ; — but  surely  you   have  not   for- 
tjotten, — 


^&.' 


I 


LUCILE. 

Or  neglected  ...  1  wariVd  you  the   whole   thing 

was  rotten. 

You  have  drawn  those  deposits  at  least  ? 

Alfred. 

No,  I  meant 

To  have  written  to-day ;  but  the  note  shall  be  sent 
To-morrow,  however. 

John. 
To-morrow  ?  too  late  ! 
Too  late !  oh.  what  devil  bewitch'd  you  to  wait  ? 

Alfred. 
Mercy  save  us  !  you  don't  mean  to  say  .  .  • 

John. 

■'  Yes,  I  do. 

Alfred. 

What !  Sir  Ridley }  .  .  . 

John. 

Smash'd,  broken,  blown  up,  bolted  too. 

Alfred. 

But  his  own  niece  ?  ...  In  heaven's  name,  Jack  .  .  . 

John. 

Oh,  I  told  you 

The  old  hypocritical  scoundrel  would  .  .  . 

Alfred. 


Hold  !  you 


Surely  can't  mean  we  are  ruin'd  ? 
John. 

A  fortnight  ago  a  report  about  town 


Sit  down 


252 


LUCILE. 


Made  me  most  apprehensive.     Alas,  and  alas  ! 

I  at  once  wrote  and    warn'd  you.     Well,   now    let 

that  pass. 
A  run  on  the  Bank  about  five  days  ago 
Confirm'd  my  forebodings  too  terribly,  though. 
I  drove  down  to  the  City  at  once  :   found  the  door 
Of  the  Bank  clos'd  :  the  Bank  had  stopp'd  payment 

at  four. 
Next  morning  the  failure  was  known  to  be  fraud  : 
Warrant  out  for  MacNab  ;  but  MacNab  was  abroad  : 
Gone — we  cannot  tell  where.     I  endeavor'd  to  get 
Information  :  have  learn'd  nothing  certain  as  yet — 
Not  even  the  way  that  old  Ridley  was  gone  : 
Or  with  those  securities  what  he  had  done : 
Or  whether  they  had  been  already  call'd  out : 
If  they  are  not,  their  fate  is,  I  fear,  past  a  doubt. 
Twenty  families  ruin'd,  they  say  :  what  was  left,— 
Unable  to  find  any  clew  to  the  cleft 
The  old  fox  ran  to  earth  in,— but  join   you  as  fast 
As  I  could,  my  dear  Alfred  .^* 


^■■' 


He  stopp'd  here,  aghast 
At  the  change  in  his  cousin,  the  hue  of  whose  face 
Had  grown  livid  ;  and  glassy  his  eyes  fix'd  on  space. 


■  These  events,  it  is  needless  to  say,  Mr.  Morse, 
Took  place  when  B.id  News  as  yet  travell'd  by  horse  ; 
Ere  the  world,  like  a  cockchafer,  buzz'd  on  a  wire, 
Or  Time  was  calcined  by  electrical  fire  ; 
Ere  a  cable  went  under  the  hoary  Atlantic, 
(Jr  the  word  Telegram  drove  grammarians  frantic. 


rbri^rsrJBsaSffi'ssss.-ts^s&iiSSi^.i- 


m: 


L  UCILE. 


253 


"  Courage,    courage  !"  .  .  .  said  John,  ..."  bear 

the  blow  like  a  man !" 
And   he  caught   the   cold    hand   of    Lord    Alfred. 

There  ran 
Through  that  hand  a  quick  tremor.     "  I  bear  it,"  he 

said, 
"  But  Matilda  ?  the  blow  is  to  her  !"     And  his  head 
Seem'd  forced  down,  as  he  said  it. 
John. 

Matilda  ?     Pooh,  pooh  ! 
I  half  think  I  know  the  girl  better  than  you. 
She  has  courage  enough— and  to  spare.     She  cares 

less 
Than  most  women  for  luxury,  nonsense,  and  dress. 

Alfred. 
The  fault  has  been  mine. 

John. 

Be  it  yours  to  repair  it 
If  you  did  not  avert,  you  may  help  her  to  bear  it. 
Alfred. 

I  might  have  averted. 

John. 
Perhaps  so.     But  now 
There  is  clearly  no  use  in  considering  how. 
Or  whence,  came   the   mischief.     The   mischief   is 

here. 
Broken    shins  are  not  mended   by  crying  — that's 

clear ! 
One  has  but  to  rub  them,  and  get  up  again, 


# 


254 


L  UCILE. 


And  push  on — and  not  think  too  much  of  the  pain. 
And  at  least  it  is  much  that  you  see  that  to  her 
You  owe  too  much  to  think  of  yourself.     You  must 

stir 
And  arouse  yourself,   Alfred,  for  her   sake.     Who 

knows  ? 
Something  yet  may  be  saved  from  this  wreck.     1 

suppose 
We  shall  make  him  disgorge  all  he  can,  at  the  least. 

"  O  Jack,  I  have  been  a  brute  idiot  !  a  beast  ! 
A  fool  I     I  have  sinn'd,  and  to  her  I  have  sinn'd  I 
I  have  been  heedless,  blind,  inexcusably  blind  I 
And  now,  in  a  fiash,  I  see  all  things  I" 

As  though 
To  shut  out  the  vision,  he  bow'd  his  head  low 
On  his  hands  ;  and  the  great  tears  in  silence  rolTd 

on, 
And  fell  momently,  heavily,  one  after  one. 
John  felt  no  desire  to  rind  instant  relief 
For  the  trouble  he  witness'd. 

He  guess'd,  in  the  grief 
Of  his  cousin,  the  broken  and  heartfelt  admission 
Of  some  error  demanding  a  heartfelt  contrition  : 
Some  oblivion  perchance  which  could    plead    less 

excuse 
To  the  heart  of  a  man  re-aroused  to  the  use 
Of  the   conscience  God  gave  him,  than  simply  and 

merely 
The  neglect  for  which  now  he  was  paying  so  dearly. 
So  he  rose  without  speaking,  and  paced  up  and  down 


L  UCILE. 


255 


The  long  room,  much  afflicterl,  indeed,  in  his  own 
Cordial  heart  for  Matilda. 

Thus,  silently  lost 
In  his  anxious  reflections,  he  cross'd  and  recross'd 
The  place  where  his  cousin  yet  hopelessly  hung 
O'er  the  table  ;  his  fingers  entwisted  among 
The  rich   curls   they  were  knotting  and  dragging  : 

and  there. 
That  sound  of  all  sounds  the  most  painful  to  hear. 
The  sobs  of  a  man  !    Yet  so  far  in  his  own 
Kindly  thoughts  was  he   plunged,  he   already   had 

grown 
Unconscious  of  Alfred. 

And  so  for  a  space 
There  was  silence  between  them. 

VII. 

At  last,  with  sad  face 
He  stopp'd  short,  and  bent  on  his  cousin  awhile 
A  pain'd  sort  of  wistful,  compassionate  smile, 
Approach'dhim,— stood  o'er  him, —and  suddenly  laid 

One  hand  on  his  shoulder— 

"  Where  is  she  ?"  he  said. 
Alfred  lifted  his  face  all  disfigured  with  tears 
And  gazed  vacantly  at  him,  like  one  that  appears 
In  some  foreign  language  to  hear  himself  greeted. 
Unable  to  answer. 

"  Where  is  she  ?"  repeated 

His  cousin. 

He  motion 'd  his  hand  to  the  door  ; 
"  There,  I  think,"  he  replied.      Cousin  John  said  no 
more. 


^ 


* 


..,^23^1 


^-^^^-^"fc'.r'i 


256 


Z  UCILE. 


And  appear'd  to  relapse  to  his  own  cogitations, 
Of  which  not  a  gesture  vouchsafed  indications. 
So  again  there  was  silence. 

A  timepiece  at  last 
Struck  the  twelve  strokes  of  midnight. 

Roused  by  them,  he  cast 
A  half-look  to  the  dial ;  then  quietly  threw 
His  arm  round  the  neck  of  his  cousin,  and  drew 
The  hands  down  from  his  face. 

"  It  is  time  she  should  know 
What  has  happen'd,"  he  said,  .  .  .  "  let  us  go  to  her 

now." 
Alfred  started  at  once  to  his  feet. 

Drawn  and  wan 
Though  his  face,  he  look'd  more  than  his  wont  was 

— a  man. 
Strong  for  once,  in  his   weakness.      U])lifted,  filTd 

through 
With  a  manly  resolve. 

If  that  axiom   be  true 
Of  the  "  Sum  quia  cogzto,"  I  must  opine 
That  "  id  sum  quod  cogito  ": — that  which,  in  fine, 
A  man  thinks  and    feels,  with  his  whole  force  of 

thought 
And  feeling,  the  man  is  himself. 

He  had  fought 
With  himself,  and  rose  up  from  his  self-overthrow 
The  survivor  of   much  which  that    strife  had  laid 

low. 
At  his  feet,  as  he  rose  at  the  name  of  his  wife, 
Lay  in  ruins  the  brilliint  unrealized  life 


L  UCILE. 


257 


Which,  though  yet  unfulfiU'd,  seem'd  till  ♦hen,   in 

that  name, 
To  be  his,  had  he  claim'd  it.      The  man's  dream  of 

fame 
And  of  power  fell  shatter'd  before  him  ;  and  only 
There  rested  the  heart  of  the  woman,  so  lonely 
In  all   save  the  love  he  could  give  her.     The  lord 
Of  that  heart  he  arose.     Blush  not.  Muse,  to  record 
That   his   first  thought,  and  last,  at  that   moment 

was  not 
Of  the  power  and  fame  that  seem'd  lost  to  his  lot. 
But  the  love  that  was  left  to  it ;  not  of  the  pelf 
He  had  cared  for,  yet  squander'd  ;  and  not  of  him- 
self. 
But  of  her  ;  as  he  murmur'd, 

"  One  moment,  dear  Jack  ! 
We  have  grown  up  from  boyhood  together.      Our 

track 
Has  been  through  the  same  meadows  in  childhood  : 

in  youth 
Through  the  same  silent   gateways,  to  manhood. 

In  truth. 
There  is  none  that  can  know  me  as  you  do  ;  and  none 
To  whom  I  more  wish  to  believe  myself  known. 
Speak  the  truth  ;  you  are  not  wont  to  mince  it,  I 

know. 
Nor  I,  shall  I  shirk  it,  or  shrink  from  it  now. 
In  despite  of  a  wanton  behavior,  in  spite 
Of  vanity,  folly,  and  pride.  Jack,  which  might 
Have   turn'd   from  me  many  a    heart  strong  and 
true 


m 


258 


L  UCILE. 


As  your  own,  I  have  never  turn'd  round  and  miss'd 

YOU 
From  my  side  in  one  hour  of  affliction  or  doubt 
By  my  own  blind  and  heedless  self-will  brought  about. 
Tell  me  truth.     Do  I  owe  this  alone  to  the  sake 
Of  those  old  recollections  of  boyhood  that  make 
In  your  heart  yet  some  clinging  and  crj'ing  appeal 
From  a  judgment  more  harsh,   which  I  cannot  but 

feel 
Might  have  sentenced  our  friendship  to  death  long 

ago.' 
Or  is  it  .   .  .  (I  would  I  could  deem  it  were  so  I) 
That,  not  all  overlaid  by  a  listless  exterior, 
Your  heart  has  divined  in  me  something  superior 
To  that  which  I  seem  ;  from  my  innermost  nature 
Not  wholly  expell'd  by  the  world's  usurpature? 
Some  instinct  of  earnestness,  truth,  or  desire 
For  truth.-*     Some  one  spark  of  the  soul's  nativt-  tire 
Moving  under  the  ashes,  and  cinders,  and  du^t 
Which  life  hath heap'd  o'er  it?     Some  one  fact  to 

trust 
And  to  hope  in  }     Or  by  you  alone  am  I  deem'd 
The  mere  frivolous  fool  I  so  often  have  seem'd 
To  my  own  self.-*" 

John. 
No,  Alfred  !  you  will,  I  believe, 
Be  true,  at  the  last,  to  what  now  makes  you  grieve 
For  having  belied  your  true  nature  so  long. 
Necessity  is  a  stern  teacher.     Be  strong  ! 

"  Do  you  think,"  he  resumed  .  .  .  "  what  I  feel  whiU 
I  speak 


\ 


L  UCILE.  259 

Is  no  more  than  a  transient  emotion,  as  weak 
As  these  weak  tears  would  seen  to  betoken  it  ?" 

John. 

No ! 
Alfred. 

Thank  you,  cousin  !  your  hand  then.     And  now  I 

will  go 
Alone,  Jack.     Trust  to  me. 

VIII. 

John. 

I  do.    But  'tis  late. 
If  she  sleeps,  you  '11  not  wake  her  ? 

Alfred. 

No,  no  !  it  will  wait 
(Poor  infant !)  too  surely,  this  mission  of  sorrow  ; 
If   she    sleeps,  I    will  not  mar  her   dreams   of  to- 
morrow. 
He  open'd  the  door,  and  pass'd  out. 

Cousin  John 
Watch'd  him  wistful,  and  left  him  to  seek  her  alone. 

IX. 

His    heart   beat  so  loud  when  he  knock'd  at    her 

door. 
He  could  hear  no  reply  from  within.  Yet  once  more 
He   knock'd   lightly.     No  answer.     The  handle  he 

tried  : 
The  door  open'd  :  he  enter'd  the  room  undescried. 


No  brighter  than  is  that  dim  circlet  of  light 


'$ 


26o 


LUCILE. 


Which  enhaloes  the  moon  when  rains  form  on  the 

night, 
The  pale  lamp  an  indistinct  radiance  shed 
Round   the  chamber,  in  which   at  her  pure  snowy 

bed 
Matilda  was  kneeling;  so  wrapt  in  deep  prayer 
That  she  knew  not  her  husband  stood  watching  her 

there. 
With  the  lamplight  the  moonlight  had  mingled  a 

faint 
And  unearthly  effulgence  which  seem'd  to  acquaint 
The  whole  place  with  a  sense  of  deep  peace  made 

secure 
By  the  presence  of  something  angelic  and  pure. 
And  not  purer  some  angel  Grief  carves  o'er  the  tomb 
Where  Love  lies,  than  the  lady  that  kneel'd  in  that 

gloom. 
She  had  put  off  her   dress  ;  and  she  look'd  to  his 

eyes 
Like  a  young  soul  escaped  from  its  earthly  disguise  ; 
Her  fair  neck  and  innocent  shoulders  w^ere  bare, 
And  over  them  rippled  her  soft  golden  hair ; 
Her  simple  and  slender  white  bodice  unlaced 
Confined  not  one  curve  of  her  delicate  waist. 
As  the  light  that,  from  water  reflected,  forever 
Trembles  up  through  the  tremulous  reeds  of  a  river. 
So  the  beam  of  her  beauty  went  trembling  in  him. 
Through  the  thoughts  it  suffused  with  a  sense  soft 

and  dim, 
Reproducing  itself  in  the  broken  and  bright 
Lapse  and  pulse  of  a  million  emotions. 


LUCILE. 


261 


-^1 


That  sight 
Bow'd  his  heart,  bow'd  his  knee.     Knowing   scarce 

what  he  did, 
To  her  side  through  the  chamber  he  silently  slid, 
And  knelt  down  beside  her— and  pray'd  at  her  side. 

XI. 

Upstarting,  she  then  for  the  first  time  descried 
That  her  husband  was  near  her  ;  suffused  with  the 

blush 
Which  came  o'er  her  soft  pallid  cheek  with  a  gush 
Where  the  tears  sparkled  yet. 

As  a  young  fawn  uncouches. 
Shy  with  fear,  from  the  fern  where  some  hunter  ap- 
proaches, 
She  shrank  back ;  he  caught  her,  and  circling  his 

arm 
Round  her  waist,  on  her  brow  press'd  one  kiss  long 

and  warm. 
Then  her  fear  changed  in  impulse  ;  and  hiding  her 

face 
On  his  breast,  she  hunglock'd  in  a  clinging  embrace 
With  her  soft  arms  wound  heavily  round  him,  as 

though 
She  fear'd,  if  their  clasp  were  relax'd,  he  would  go  : 
Her  smooth  naked  shoulders,  uncared  for,  convulsed 
By  sob  after  sob,  while  her  bosom  yet  pulsed 
In  its  pressure  on  his,  as  the  effort  within  it 
Lived  and  died  with  each  tender  tumultuous  minute 
•  O  Alfred,  O  Alfred  !  forgive  me,"  she  cried— 
"  Forg-ive  me  !  " 


.-"S^ts^^  •^^ 


262 


LCCn.E. 


f 


"  Forgive  you.  my  poor  child  I"  he  sig-h'd  ; 
"  But  I   never  have  blamed    you    for  aught  that  I 

know. 
And  I  have  not  one  thought  that  reproaches  you 

now." 
From  her  arms  he  unwound  himself  gently.    And  so 
He  forced  her  down  softly  beside  him.     Below 
The  canopy  shading  their  couch,  they  sat  down. 
And  he  said,  clasping  firmly  her  hand  in  his  own, 
"  When    a   proud  man,  Matilda,  has  found  out    at 

length. 
That  he  is  but  a  child  in  the   midst  of  his  strength, 
But  a  fool  in  his  wisdom,  to  whom  can  he  own 
The   weakness   which    thus  to  himself  hath  been 

shown  .•' 
From  whom  seek  the  strength  which  his  need  of  is 

sore, 
Although  in  his  pride  he  might  perish,  before 
He  could  plead  for  the  one,  or  the  other  avow 
'Mid   his  intimate  friends  ?     Wife  of  mine,  tell  me 

now. 
Do  you  join  me  in  feeling,  in  that  darken'd  hour. 
The  sole  friend  that  caft  have  the  right  or  the  power 
To  be  at  his  side,  is  the  woman  that  shares 
His  fate,  if  he  falter  ;  the  woman  that  bears 
The  name  dear  for  /ter  sake,  and   hallows  the  life 
She   has    mingled    her  own    with,  —in   short,  that 

man's  wife .''" 
'•  Yes,"  murmur'd  Matilda,  "  O  yes  !" 

"  Then,"  he  cried. 
"This  chamber  in  which  we  two  sit   side  bv  side 


\ 


i 


LUCILE. 


263 


<      !»> 


(And  his  arm,  as  he  spoke,  seem'd  more  softly  to 

press  her), 
Is  now  a  confessional  —you,  my  confessor  !" 
"  I  ?"  she  falter'd,  and  timidly  lifted  her  head. 
"  Yes  !  but  first  answer  one  other  question,"  he  said  : 
"  When  a  woman  once  feels  that  she  is  not  alone ; 
That  the  heart  of  another  is  warm'd  by  her  own ; 
That  another  feels  with  her  whatever  she  feel, 
And  halves  her  existence  in  woe  or  in  weal ; 
That  a  man  for  her  sake  will,  so  long  as  he  lives. 
Live  to  put  forth  his  strength  which  the  thought  of 

her  gives  ; 
Live  to  shield  her  from  want,  and  to  share  with  her 

sorrow ; 
Live  to  solace  the  day,  and  provide  for  the  morrow  ; 
Will  that  woman  feel  less  than  another,  O  say, 
The  loss  of  what  hfe,  sparing  this,  takes  away  ? 
Will  she  feel  (feeling  this),  when  calamities  come. 
That  they  brighten  the  heart,  though  they  darken 

the  home  ?" 
She  turn'd,like  a  soft  rainy  heaven,  on  him 
Eyes  that  smiled  through  fresh  tears,  trustful,  tender, 

and  dim. 
"  That  woman,"  she  murmur'd,  "  indeed  were  thrice 

blest!" 
"  Then   courage,    true  wife   of   my    heart !"  to  his 

breast 
As  he  folded  and  gather'd  her  closely,  he  cried. 
"  For  the  refuge,  to-night  in  these  arms  open'd  wide 
To  your  heart,  can  be  never  closed  to  it  again, 
And  this  room  is  for  both  an  asylum  !     For  when 


^'M 


264 


L  UCILE. 


I  pass'd  through  that  door,  at  the  door  I  left  there 
A  calamity,  sudden,  and  heavy  to  bear. 
One  step  from  that  threshold,  and  daily,  I  fear. 
We  must  face  it  henceforth  :  but  it  enters  not  here. 
For  that  door  shuts  it  out,  and  admits  here  alone 
A  heart  which  calamity  leaves  all  your  own  !" 
She  started  .  .  .  "  Calamity,  Alfred  !  to  you  ?" 
"  To  both,  my  poor  child,  but  'twill  bring  with  it  too 
The  courage,  I  trust,  to  subdue  it." 

"  O  speak  I 
Speak  !"  she  falter'd  in  tones    timid,  anxious,  and 

weak. 
"  O  yet  for  a  moment,"  he  said,  "  hear  me  on  ! 
Matilda,  this  morn  we  went  forth  in  the  sun. 
Like  those  children  of  sunshine,  the  bright  summer 

flies. 
That  sport  in   the   sunbeam,  and  play  through  the 

skies 
While  the  skies  smile,  and  heed  not  each  other  :  at 

last. 
When  their  sunbeam   is  gone,  and  their  sky  over- 
cast, 
Who  recks  in  what  ruin  they  fold  their  wet  wings  ? 
So    indeed   the   morn    found    us,  —  poor   frivolous 

things  I 
Now  our  sky  is  o'ercast,  and  our  sunbeam  is  set. 
And  the  night  brings  its  darkness  around  us.     Oh, 

yet. 
Have  we  weather'd  no  storm  through  those  twelve 

cloudless  hours  } 
Yes  ;  you,  too,  have  wept  I 


L  UCILE. 


265 


"  While  the  world  was  yet  ours, 
While  its  sun  was  upon  us,  its  incense  stream'd  to  us, 
And  its  myriad  voices  of  joy  seem'd  to  woo  us. 
We  stray'd  from  each  other,  too  far,  it  may  be. 
Nor,  wantonly  wandering,  then  did  I  see 
How  deep  was  my  need  of  thee,  dearest,  how  great 
Was  thy  claim  on  my  heart  and  thy  share  in  my 

fate  ! 
But,  Matilda,  an  angel  was  near  us,  meanwhile. 
Watching  o'er  us,  to  warn,  and  to  rescue  ! 

"  That  smile 
Which  you   saw  with  suspicion,  that   presence  you 

eyed 
With  resentment,  an  angel's  they  were  at  your  side 
And  at  mine ;  nor  perchance  is  the  day  all  so  far, 
When  we  both  in  our  prayers,  when  most  heartfelt 

they  are. 
May  murmur  the  name  of  that  woman  now  gone 
From  our  sight  evermore. 

"  Here,  this  evening,  alone, 
I  seek  your  forgiveness,  in  opening  my  heart' 
Unto  yours, — from  this  clasp  be  it  never  to  part  ! 
Matilda,  the  fortune  you  brought  me  is  gone. 
But  a  prize  richer  far  than  that  fortune  has  won 
It  is  yours  to  confer,  and  I  kneel  for  that  prize, 
T  is  the  heart  of  my  wife  !"     W'ith  suffused  happy 

eyes 
She  sprang  from  her  seat,  t^ung  her  arms  wide  apart. 
And  tenderly  closing  them  round  him.  his  heart 
Clasp'd  in  one  close  embrace  to  her  bosom  ;  and 

there 


:/! 


266 


L  UCILE. 


Droop'd  her  head  on  his  shoulder  ;  and  sobb'd. 

Not  despair, 
Not  sorrow,  not  even  the  sense  of  her  loss. 
Flow'd  in  those   happy  tears,  so  oblivious  she  was 
Of  all  save  the  sense  of  her  own  love  !     Anon, 
However,  his  words  rush'd  back  to  her,  "  All  gone, 
The  fortune  you  brought  me  !" 

And  eyes  that  were  dim 
With  soft  tears  she  upraised  :  but   those  tears  were 

for  him. 
'-  Gone  I  my  hujband  ?"  she  said,  "  tell  me  ah     see  ! 

I  need. 
To  sobei  this  rapture,  so  selfish  indeed. 
Fuller  sense  of  affliction," 

"  I'oor  innocent  child  !" 
He  kiss'd  her  fair  forehead,  and  mournfully  smiled, 
As  he  told  her  the  tale    he  had  heard — something 

more 
The  gain  found  in  loss  of  what  gain  lost  of  yore. 
"  Rest,  my  heart,  and  my  brain,  and  my  right  hand 

for  you  ; 
And  with  these,  my  Matilda,  what  may  I  not  do  ? 
You  know  not.  I  knew  not  myself  till  this  hour. 
Which    so  sternly    reveal'd    it,  my    nature's    full 

power," 
"  And  I  too,"  she  murmur'd.  "  I  too  am  no  more 
The  mere  infant  at  heart  you  have  known   me  be- 
fore, 
1  have  suffer'd  since  then,     I  have  learn'd  much  in 

life. 
()  take,  with  the  faith  I  have  ])ledged  as  a  wife. 


J 


L  UCILE. 


267 


The  heart  T  have  learn'd  as  a  woman  to  feel  ! 
For  I — love  you.  my  husband  !" 

As  though  to  conceal 
Less  from  him,  than  herself,  what  that  motion  ex- 

press'd, 
She  dropp'd   her  bright   head,  and   hid  all  on   his 

breast. 
"  O  lovely  as  woman,  beloved  as  wife  ! 
Evening  star  of  my  heart,  light  forever  my  life  ! 
If  from  eyes  tix'd  too  long  on  this  base  earth  thus  far 
You  have  miss'd  your  due  homage,  dear  guardian 

star. 
Believe  that,  uplifting  those  eyes  unto  heaven. 
There  I  see  you,  and  know  you,  and  bless  the  light 

given 
To  lead  me  to  life's  late  achievement  ;  my  own. 
My  blessing,  my  treasure,  my  all  things  in  one  !" 

XII. 

How  lovely  she  look'd  in  the  lovely  moonlight. 
That  streanVd  thro'  the  pane  from  the  blue  balmy 

night ! 
How  lovely  she  look'd  in  her  own  lovely  youth. 
As  she  clung  to  his  side  full  of  trust,  and  of  truth  ! 
How^  lovely  to  him,  as  he  tenderly  press'd 
Her  young  head  on  his  bosom,  and  sadly  caress'd 
The  glittering  tresses  which  now  shaken  loose 
Shower'd  gold  in  his  hand,  as  he  smooth'd  them  ! 

XIII. 

O  Muse, 
Interpose  not  one  pulse  of   thme  own  beating  heart 


A. 


^ 


5^Ii.  ^^ 


26S 


Z  UCILE. 


Twixt  these  two  silent  souls  !  There's  a  joy  beyond 

art, 
And  bevond  sound  the  music  it  makes  in  the  breast. 


Here  were  lovers  twice  wed,   that  were  happy  at 

least ! 
No  music,  save  such  as  the  nightingales  sung, 
Breath'd  their  bridals  abroad  ;  and  no  cresset,  up- 
hung, 
Lit    that    festival  hour,    save  what    soft  light   was 

given 
From  the  pure  stars  that  peopled  the  deep-purple 

heaven. 
He  open'd  the  casement  :  he  led  her  with  him, 
Hush'd  m  heart, to  the  terrace,  dipp'd  cool  in  the  dim 
Lustrous  gloom    of   the  shadowy   laurels.      They 

heard 
Aloof  the  invisible,  rapturous  bird. 
With  her   wild  note   bewildering    the  woodlands  : 

they  saw 
Not  unheard,  afar  off,  the  hill-rivulet  draw 
His  long  ripple  of  moon-kindled  wavelets  with  cheer 
From  the  throat  of  the  vale ;  o'er  the  dark-sapphire 

sphere 
The  mild,  multitudinous  lights  lay  asleep, 
Pastured  free  on  the  midnight,  and   bright  as  the 

sheep 
Of  Apollo  in  pastoral  Thrace;  from  unknown 
Hollow  glooms  freshen'd  odors  around  them  were 

blown 


L  UCILE 


269 


Iiitermittingly  ;  then  the  moon  dropp'd  from  their 

sight, 
Immersed  in  the  mountains,  and  put  out  the  hght 
Which  no  longer  they  needed  to  read  on  the  face 
Of  each  other's  life's  last  revelation. 

The  place 
Slept  sumptuous  round  them  ;  and  Nature,  that  never 
Sleeps,  but  waking  reposes,  with  patient  endeavor 
Continued  about  them,  unheeded,  unseen, 
Her  old,  quiet  toil  in  the  heart  of  the  green 
Summer  silence,  preparing   new  buds  for  new  blos- 
soms, 
And  stealing  a  finger  of  change  o'er  the  bosoms 
Of   the    unconscious   woodlands ;   and   Time,  that 

halts  not 
His  forces,  how  lovely  soever  the  spot 
Where  their  march  lies — the  wary,  gray  strategist 

Time, 
With  the  armies  of  Life,  lay  encamp'd — Grief  and 

Crime, 
Love  and  Faith,  in  the  darkness  unheeded ;  matur- 
ing, 
For  his  great  war  with  man,  new  surprises  ;  securing 
All  outlets,  pursuing  and  pushing  his  foe 
To  his  last  narrow  refuge — the  grave. 

XV. 

Sweetly  though 
Smiled  the  stars  like  new  hopes  out  of  heaven,  and 

sweetly 
Their  hearts  beat  thanksgiving  for  all  things,  com- 
pletely 


-^- 


2  70  LUCILE. 

Contiding  in  that  yet  untrodden  existence 
Over  which  they  were  pausing.     To-morrow,  resist- 
ance 
And  struggle  ;  to-night,  Love  his  hallow'd  device 
Hung  forth,  and  proclaim 'd  his  serene  armistice. 


CANTO  V. 
r. 
When  Lucile  left  Matilda,  she  sat  for  long  hours 
In    her   chamber,    fatigued    by   long   overwrought 

powers, 
'Mid  the  signs  of  departure,  about  to  turn  back 
To  her  old  vacant  life,  on  her  old  homeless  track. 
She  felt  her  heart  falter  within  her.     She  sat 
Like  some  poor  player,  gazing  dejectedlv  at 
The  insignia  of  royalty  worn  for  a  night ; 
Exhausted,  fatigued,  with  the  dazzle  and  light. 
And  the  effort  of  passionate  feigning  ;  who  thinks 
Of  her  own  meagre,  rush-lighted  garret,  and  shrinks 
From  the  chill  of  the  change  that  awaits  her. 

II. 

From  these 
Oppressive,  and  comfortless,  blank  reveries, 
Unable  to  sleep,  she  descended  the  stair 
That  led  from  her  room  to  the  garden. 

The  air, 
With  the  chill  of  the  dawn,  yet  unris'n,  but  at  hand. 
.Strangely   smote   on   her   feverish    forehead.     The 
land 


\ 


"The  air, 
With  the  chill  of  the  dawn,  yet  unris'n,  but  at  hand, 
Strangely  smote  on  her  feverish  forehead."— Page  270. 


L  UCILE. 


271 


Lay  in   darkness  and    change,  like  a  world  in   its 

grave  : 
No  sound,  save  the  voice  of  the  long  river  wave. 

And  the  crickets  that  sing  all  the  night ! 

She  stood  still, 

Vaguely  watching  the  thin  cloud  that  curl'd  on  the 
hill. 

Emotions,  long  pent  in  her  breast,  were  at  stir, 

And  the  deeps  of  the  spirit  were  troubled  in  her. 

Ah,  pale  woman!    what,    with   that   heart-broken 
look. 

Didst  thou  read  then  in  nature's  weird  heart-break- 
ing book? 

Have  the  wild  rains  of  heaven  a  father  ?  and  who 

Hath  in  pity  begotten  the  drops  of  the  dew? 

Orion,  Arcturus.  who  pilots  them  both  ? 

What  leads  forth  in  his  season  the  bright  Mazaroth  ? 

Had  the  darkness  a  dwelling,— save  there,  in  those 
eyes  ? 

And  what  name  hath  that  half-reveal'd  hope  in  the 

skies  ? 
Av  question,  and  listen  !     What  answer? 

^  The  sound 

Of  the  long  river  wave  through  its  stone-troubled 

bound. 
And  the  crickets  that  sing  all  the  night. 

There  are  hours 
Which  belong  to  unknown,  supernatural  powers, 
Whose  sudden  and  solemn  suggestions  are  all 
That  to  this  race  of   worms,-  stinging  creatures 

that  crawl. 


^1 


272 


Z  UCILE. 


Lie,   and   fear,  and   die   daily,  beneath    their   own 

stings, — 
Can  excuse  the  bHnd  boast  of  inherited  wings. 
When  the  soul,  on  the  impulse  of  anguish,  hath 

pass'd 
Beyond  anguish,  and  risen  into  rapture  at  last ; 
When  she  traverses  nature  and  space,  till  she  stands 
In  the  Chamber  of  Fate;  where,  through  tremulous 

hands. 
Hum  the  threads  from  an  old-fashion'd  distaff  un- 

curl'd. 
And  those  three  blind  old  women  sit  spinning  the 

world. 

III. 

The  dark  was  blanch'd  wan,  overhead.     One  green 

star 
Was  sHpping  from  sight  in  the  pale  void  afar  ; 
The  spirits  of  change,  and  of  awe,  with  faint  breath. 
Were  shifting  the  midnight,  above  and  beneath. 
7  he  spirits  of  awe  and  of  change  were  around, 
And  about,  and  upon  her. 

A  dull  muffled  sound, 
And  a  hand  on  her  hand,  like  a  ghostly  surprise, 
And  she  felt  herself  fix'd  by  the  hot  hollow  eyes 
Of  the  Frenchman  before  her:  those  eyes  seem"d  to 

burn, 
And  scorch  out  the  darkness  between  them,  and  turn 
Into  fire  as  they  fix'd  her.    He  look'd  like  the  shade 
Of  a  creature  by  fancy  from  solitude  made. 
And  sent  forth  by  the  darkness  to  scare  and  oppress 
Some  soul  of  a  monk  in  a  waste  wilderness. 


i 


J 

? 


L  UCILE. 


"iTh 


"  At  last,  then— at  last,  and  alone,— I  and  thou, 
Lucile  de  Nevers,  have  we  met  ? 

"  Hush  !  I  know 

Not  for  me  was  the  tryst.    Never  mind  !  it  is  mine ; 
And  whatever  led  hither  those  proud  steps  of  thme. 
They  remove  not.  until  we  have  spoken.     My  hour 
Is  come ;  and  it  holds  thee  and  me  in  its  power. 
As   the  darkness  holds  both  the   horizons.     T  is 

well ! 
The  timidest  maiden  that  e'er  to  the  spell 
Of  her  first  lover's  vows  listen'd,  hush'd  with  de- 
light. 
When  soft  stars  were  brightly  uphanging  the  night, 
Never  listen'd,  I  swear,  more  unquestioningly. 
Than  thy  fate  hath  compell'd  thee  to  listen  to  me  !" 
To  the  sound  of  his  voice,  as  though  out  of  a  dream. 
She  appear'd  with  a  start  to  awaken. 

The  stream, 

When  he  ceased,  took  the  night  with  its  moaning 

again. 
Like  the  voices  of  spirits  departing  in  pain. 
"  Continue,"  she  answer'd.  "  I  listen  to  hear.' 

For  a  moment  he  did  not  reply. 

Through  the  drear 

And  dim  light  between  them,  she  saw  that  his  face 
Was  disturb'd.     To  and  fro  he  continued  to  pace. 
With  his  arms  folded  close,  and  the  low  restless 

stride 
Of  a  panther,  in  circles  around  her,  first  wide. 
Then  narrower,  nearer,  and  quicker.     At  last 


"^:^ 


274 


L  UCILE. 


He  stood  still,  and  one  long  look  upon  her  he  cast 

"  Lucile,  dost  thou  dare  to  look  into  my  face  ? 

Is   the  sight  so  repugnant  ?  ha,  well  I     Canst  thou 

trace 
One  word  of  thy  writing  in  this  wicked  scroll, 
With  thine  own  name  scrawl 'd  through  it,  defacing 

a  soul ?" 
In  his  face  there  was  something  so  wrathful  and  wild, 
That  the  sight  of  it  scared  her. 

He  saw  it,  and  smiled. 
And  then  turn'd  him  from  her,  renewing  again 
That    short   restless  stride  ;  as  though  searching  in 

vain 
For  the  point  of  some  purpose  within  him. 

"  Lucile, 
You  shudder  to  look  in  my  face  :  do  you  feel    ' 
No  reproach  when  you  look  in  your  own  heart  ?" 

"  No,  Duke, 
In  my  conscience  I  do  not  deserve  your  rebuke  : 
Not  yours  !"  she  replied. 

"  No,"  he  mutter'd  again, 
"  Gentle  justice  !  you  first  bid  Life  hope  not,  and  then 
To  Despair  you  say  '  Act  not  ! '  " 


He  watch'd  her  awhile 
With  a  chill  sort  of  restless  and  suffering  smile. 
They  stood  by  the  wall  of  the  garden.    The  skies. 
Dark,  sombre,  were  troubled  with  vague  prophecies 
Of  the  dawn  yet  far   distant.     The  moon  had  long 
set. 


^^^ 


,^^ 


L  UCILE. 


21% 


And  all  in  a  glimmering  light,  pale,  and  wet 

With  the  night-dews,  the  white  roses  sullenly  loom'd 

Round    about  her.     She  spoke  not.     At  length  he 

resumed. 
•'  Wretched  creatures  we  are  !  I  and  thou— one  and 

all! 
Only  able  to  injure  each  other,  and  fall 
Soon  or  late,  in  that  void  which  ourselves  we  prepare 
For  the  souls  that  we  boast  of !  weak  insects  we  are  ! 
O  heaven  !  and  what  has  become  of  them  ?  all 
Those  instincts  of  Eden  surviving  the  Fall  : 
That  glorious  faith  in  inherited  things  ; 
That  sense  in  the  soul  of  the  length  of  her  wings  ; 
Gone!  all  gone!  and  the  wail   of  the    night  wind 

sounds  human, 
Bewailing  those  once  nightly  visitants  !    Woman, 
Woman,  what    hast  thou  done    with    my  youth? 

Give  again. 
Give  me  back  the  young  heart  that  I  gave  thee  .   .  . 

in  vain  !" 
"  Duke  !"  she  falter'd. 

"  Yes,  yes  !"  he  went  on,  "  I  was  not 
Always  thus  !  what  I  once  was,  I  have  not  forgot." 

VI. 

As  the  wind  that  heaps  sand  in  a  desert,  there  stirr'd 
Through  his  voice  an  emotion  that  swept  every  word 
Into  one  angry  wail ;  as,  with  feverish  change, 
He  continued  his  monologue,  fitful  and  strange. 
"  Woe  to  him,  in  whose  nature,  once  kindled,  the 
torch 


276 


L  UCILE. 


1 


Of  Passion  burns  downward  to  blacken  and  scorch  ! 
But  shame,  shame  and  sorrow,  O  woman,  to  thee 
Whose   hand  sow'd  the  seed  of  destruction  in  me  I 
Whose  lip  taught  the  lesson  of  falsehood  to  mine  I 
Whose    looks    made  me  doubt  lies  that  look'd  so 

divine  ! 
My  soul  by  thy  beauty  was  slain  in  its  sleep  ; 
And  if  tears    I   mistrust,  't  is  that  thou   too  canst 

weep  I 
Well  I  .  .  .  how  utter  soever  k  be,  one  mistake 
In  the    love  of  a  man,  what  more  change  need  it 

make 
In  the  steps  of  his  soul  through  the  course  love  be- 
gan, 
Than  all  other  mistakes  in  the  life  of  a  man  ? 
And  I  said  to  myself,  '  I  am  young  yet :  too  young 
To  have  wholly  survived  my  own  portion  among 
The  great  needs  of  man's  life,  or  exhausted  its  joys  ; 
What  is  broken  ?  one  only  of  youth's  pleasant  toys  ! 
Shall  I  be  the  less  welcome,  wherever  I  go, 
For  one  passion  survived  ?     No !  the  roses  will  blow 
As  of  yore,  as  of  yore  will  the  nightingales  sing. 
Not  less   sweetly  for  one  blossom  cancell'd   from 

Spring  ! 
Hast  thou  loved,  O  my  heart  ?  to   thy  love  yet  re- 
mains 
All  the  wide  loving-kindness  of  nature.     The  plains 
And  the  hills    with  each  summer  their  verdure  re- 
new. 
Wouldst  thou  be  as  they  are.'  do  thou  then  as  they 
do. 


¥^^ 


^ 


L  UCILE. 


277 


Let   the  dead    sleep  in    peace.     Would   the   living 

divine 
Where  they  slumber  ?     Let  only  new   tlowers   be 

the  sign  ! ' 

"Vain  !  all  vain  !  .  .  .  For  when,  laughing,  the  wine 

I  would  quaff, 
I  remember 'd  too  well  all  it  cost  me  to  laugh. 
Through  the  revel  it  was  but  the  old  song  I  heard, 
Through  the  crowd  the    old   footsteps  behind  me 

they  stirr'd, 
In  the    night-wind,  the  starlight,  the    murmurs  of 

even. 
In  the  ardors  of  earth,  and  the  languors  of  heaven, 
I  could    trace  nothing  more,  nothing  more  through 

the  spheres. 
But  the   sound  of   old  sobs,  and  the  tracks  of  old 

tears  ! 
It  was  with  me  the  night  long  in  dreaming  or  wak- 
ing. 
It  abided  in  loathing,  when  daylight  was  breaking. 
The  burthen  of  the  bitterness  in  me  !     Behold, 
All  my  days  were  become  as  a  tale  that  is  told. 
And  I  said  to  my  sight,  '  No  good  thing  shalt  thou 

see, 
For  the  noonday  is  turned  to  darkness  in  me. 
In  the  house  of  Oblivion  my  bed  I  have  made.' 
And  I  said  to  the  grave,  '  Lo,  my  father  !  '  and  said 
To  the  worm,  '  Lo,  my  sister ! '    The  dust  to  the 

dust. 
And  one  end  to  the  wicked  shall  be  with  the  just !" 


iT'  .^1^=— ,._ 


273 


Z  UCTLE. 


He  ceased,  as  a  wind  that  wails   out  on  the  night. 
And  moans  itself  mute.      Through  the  indistinct 

light 
A  v'oice  clear,  and  tender,  and  pure  with  a  tone 
Of  ineffable  pity  replied  to  his  own. 
"  And  say  vou,  and  deem  you,  that  I  wreck"d   your 

life  ? 
Alas  !    Due  de  Luvois,  had  I  been  your  wife 
By   a  fraud  of   the  heart  which    could   yield   you 

alone 
Yox  the  love  in  your  nature  a  lie  in  mv  own, 
Should  1  not,  in  deceiving,  have  injured  you  worse? 
V'es,  I  then  should  have  merited  justly  vour  curse, 
For  I  then  should  have  wrong'd  you  I" 

"  Wrong'd  !  ah,  is  it  so.'' 
You  could  never  have  loved  me  }" 

"  Duke  !" 

"  Never  ?  oh  no  !" 
(He  broke  into  a  fierce,  angry  laugh,  as  he  said) 
"  Vet,  lady,  you  knew  that  I  loved  you  :  you  led 
My  love  on  to  lay  to  its  heart,  hour  by  hour, 
All  the  pale,  cruel,  beautiful,  passionless  power 
Siuit  up  in  that  cold  face  of  yours  !  was  this  well  ? 
lUit  enough  !  not  on  you  would  I  vent  the  wild  hell 
Which  has  grown  in  my  heart.      Oh  that  man,  first 

and  last 
He  tramples  in  triumph  my  life  !  he  has  cast 
His  shadov,-   twixt  me  and  the  sun   ...  let  it  pass  I 
.My  hate  yet  mav  rind  him  I" 

She  murmur'd,  "  Alas  ! 


"r^-^v 


LUCILE. 


279 


These  words,  at  least,  spare  me  the  pain  of  reply. 
Enough,  Due  de  Luvois  !  farewell.     I  shall  try 
To  forget  every  word  I  have  heard,  every  sight 
That  has  grieved  and  appall'd  me  in  this  wretched 

night 
Which  must    witness  our  final  farewell.      May  you, 

Duke, 
Never    know    greater   cause    your   own   heart  to 

rebuke 
Than  mine  thus  to  wrong  and  afflict  you  have  had  . 

Adieu  !" 

"Stay,  Lucile,  stay!"  ...  he   groaned,  .  .  .  •' 1 

am  mad, 
Brutalized,  blind  with  pain  I      I  know  not  what  I 

said. 
I  meant  it  not.      But "    (he  moan'd.  drooping  his 

head) 
•■  Forgive  me  !     I— have  I  so  wrong'd  you,  Lucile? 
I  .  .  !"  have  I  .  .  .  forgive  me,  forgive  me !" 

"I  feel 

Only  sad.  very  sad  to  the  soul,"  she  said,  "  far, 
Far  too  sad  for  resentment." 

"  Yet  stand  as  you  are 
One  moment,"  he  murmur'd.      "  I   thmk,  could  I 
gaze 
,  Thus  awhile  on  your  face,  the  old  innocent  days 
Would   come  back  upon  me,  and   this  scorching 

heart 
Free  itself  in  hot  tears.     Do  not,  do  not  depart 
Thus,  Lucile !  stay  one  moment.      I  know  why  you 
shrink. 


28o 


LUCILE. 


Why  you  shudder  ;  I  read   in  your  face  what  you 

think. 
Do  not  speak  to  me  of  it.     And  yet,  if  you  will, 
Whatever  you  say,  my  own  lips  shall  be  still. 
I  lied.     And  the  truth,  now,  could  justify  nought. 
There   are   battles,  it   may    be,  in    which    to   have 

fought 
Is  more  shameful  than,  simply,  to  fail.     Yet,  Lucile, 
Had  you  help'd  me  to  bear  what  you  forced  me  to 

feel— •• 
"  Could  I  help  you,"  she  murmur'd,  "but  what  can 

I  say 
That  your  life  will  respond   to?"      "My  life.'"  he 

sigh'd.     "  Nay, 
My  life  hath  brought  forth  only  evil,  and  there 
The  wild  wind  hath  planted  the  wild  weed  :  yet  ere 
You  e.xclaim,  '  Fling  the  weed  to  the  flames,'   think 

again 
Why  the  field  is  so  barren.     With  all  other  men 
First  love,  though  it  perish  from  life,  only  goes 
Like  the  primrose  that  falls  to  make  way  for  the 

rose. 
For  a  man,  at  least  most  men,  may  love  on  through 

life  : 
Love  in  fame ;  love  in  knowledge  ;  in  work  :  earth  is 

rife 
With  labor,  and  therefore,  with  love,  for  a  man. 
If  one  love  fails,  another  succeeds,  and  the  plan 
Of  man's  life  includes  love  in  all  objects  !      But  I  } 
All  such  loves  from  my  life  through  its  whole  des- 

tinv 


.»-  C-v 


I 


L  UCILE. 


281 


Fate  excluded.     The  love  that  I  gave  you,  alas  ' 
Was  the  sole  love  that  life  gave  to  me.      Let  that 

pass  ! 
It  perish'd,  and  all  perish'd  with  it.     Ambition  } 
Wealth  left  nothing  to  add  to  my  social  condition. 
Fame  ?     But  fame  in  itself  presupposes  some  great 
Field  wherein  to  pursue  and  attain  it.     The  State  } 
I,  to  cringe  to  an  upstart  ?      The   Camp  ?      I,  to 

draw 
From   its    sheath  the  old    sword  of  the    Dukes  of 

Luvois 
To  defend  usurpation  ?   Books,  then  ?    Science,  Art.? 
But,  alas  !     I  was  fashion'd  for  action  :  my  heart, 
Wither'd   thing  though  it  be,  I  should  hardly  com- 
press 
'Twixt  the  leaves  of  a  treatise  on  Statics  :  life's  stress 
Needs  scope,  not  contraction  !  what  rests  ?  to  wear 

out 
At  some  dark  northern  court  an  existence,  no  doubt. 
In  wretched  and  paltry  intrigues  for  a  cause 
As  hopeless  as  is  my  own  life !     By  the  laws 
Of  a  fate  I  can  neither  control  nor  dispute, 
I  am  what  I  am  !" 

VIII. 

For  a  while  she  was  mute. 
Then  she  answer'd,  "  We  are  our  own  fates.      Our 

own  deeds 
Are  our  doomsmen.      Man's  life  was  made  not  for 

men's  creeds, 
But  men's  actions.    And,  Due  de  Luvois,  I  might  say 
That  all  life  attests,  that  '  the  will  makes  the  way. ' 


I 


L  UCILE. 


m 


Is  the  land  of  our  birth  less  the  land  of  our  birth, 
Or  its   claim  the  less  strong,  or  its  cause   the  less 

worth 
Our  upholding,  because  the  white  lily  no  more 
Is  as  sacred  as  all  that  it  bloom 'd  for  of  yore  ? 
Yet  be  that  as  it  may  be  ;  I  cannot  perchance 
Judge  this  matter.     I  am  but  a  woman,  and  France 
Has  for  me   simpler  duties.      Large  hope,  though, 

Eugene 
De  Luvois,  should  be  vnurs.       There  is  purpose  in 

pain, 
Otherwise  it  were  devilish.     I  trust  in  my  soul 
That  the  great  master  hand  which  sweeps  over  the 

whole 
Of  this  deep  harp  of  life,  if  at  moments  it  stretch 
To  shrill  tension  some  one  wailing  nerve,  means  to 

fetch 
Its  response  the  truest,  most  stringent,  and  smart. 
Its  pathos  the  purest,  from  out  the  wrung  heart. 
Whose  faculties,  flaccid  it  may  be,  if  less 
Sharply  strung,  sharply  smitten,  had  fail'd  to  express 
Just  the  one  note  the  great  final  harmony  needs. 
And  what  best  proves  there  's  life  in  a  heart  ? — that 

it  bleeds  ! 
Grant  a  cause  to  remove,  grant  an  end  to  attain, 
(Irant  both  to  be  just,  and  what  mercy  in  pain  I 
Cease  the  sin   with  the  sorrow  !      See  morning  be- 
gin ! 
Pain  must  burn  itself  out  if  not  fuell'd  by  sin. 
There  is  hope  in  yon  hill-tops,  and  love  in  yon  light. 
Let  hate  and  despondency  die  with  the  night  I" 


Il 


LUCILE. 


283 


He  was  moved  by  her  words.     As  some  poor  wretch 

confined 
In  cells  loud  with  meaningless  laughter,  whose  mind 
Wanders  trackless  amidst  its  own  ruins,  may  hear 
A  voice  heard  long  since,  silenced  many  a  year. 
And  now,  'mid  mad  ravings  recaptured  again. 
Singing  through  the  caged  lattice  a  once  well-known 

strain, 
Which  brings  back  his  boyhood  upon  it,  until 
The  mind's  ruin'd  crevices  graciously  fill 
With  music  and  memory,  and,  as  it  were, 
The  long-troubled  spirit  grows  slowly  aware 
Of  the  mockery  round  it,  and  shrinks  from  each  thing 
It  once  sought,— the  poor  idiot  who  pass'd  for  a 

king. 
Hard  by,  with  his  squalid    straw  crown,  now  con- 

fess'd 
A  madman  more  painfully  mad  than  the  rest,— 
So  the  sound  of  her  voice,  as  it  there  wander'd  o'er 
His  echoing  heart,  seem'd  in  part  to  restore 
The  forces  of  thought  :  he  recaptured  the  w^hole 
Of  his  life  by  the  light  which,  in  passing,  her  soul 
Reflected  on  his :  he  appear'd  to  awake 
From  a   dream,  and   perceived  he  had  dream'd  a 

mistake  : 
His  spirit  was  soften'd,  yet  troubled  in  him  : 
He  felt  his  lips  falter,  his  eyesight  grow  dim, 
But  he  murmur'd  .  .  . 

"  Lucile,  not  for  me  that  sun's  light 
Which  reveals  — not  restores —the  wild  ha.'oc  of 
night. 


I 


'A 


\ 


ife 


^84 


Z  UCILE. 


There  are  some  creatures  born  for  the  night,  not  the 

day. 
Broken-hearted  the  nightingale  hides  in  the  spray, 
And  the  owl's  moody  mind  in  his  own  hollow  tower  , 
Dwells   muffled.     Be    darkness    henceforward    my 

dower. 
Light,  be    sure,  in   that   darkness  there   dwells,  by 

which  eyes 
Grown  familiar  with  ruins  may  yet  recognize 
Enough  desolation." 

IX. 

"  The  pride  that  claims  here 
On  earth  to  itself  (howsoever  severe 
To  itself  it  may  be)  God's  dread  office  and  right 
Of  punishing  sin,  is  a  sin  in  heaven's  sight, 
And  against  heaven's  service. 

"  Eugene  de  Luvois, 
Leave  the  judgment  to  Him  who  alone  knows  the 

law. 
Surely  no  man  can  be  his  own  judge,  least  of  all 
His  own  doomsman." 

Her  words  seem'd  to  fall 
With  the  weight  of  tears  in  them. 

He  look'd  up,  and  saw 
That  sad  serene  countenance,  mournful  as  law 
And  tender  as  pity,  bow'd  o'er  him  :  and  heard 
In  some  thicket  the  matinal  chirp  of  a  bird. 


"Vulgar  natures  alone  suffer  vainly. 


t^'^ 


^ 


J 


"  Eugene," 


^: 


L  UCILE. 


285 


She  continued,  "  in  life  we  have  met  once  again, 
And  once   more    life   parts    us.     Yon    day-spring 

for  me 
Lifts  the  veil  of  a  future  in  which  it  may  be 
We  shall  meet  nevermore.     Grant,  oh  grant  to  me 

yet 
The  belief  that  it  is  not  in  vam  we  have  met ! 
I  plead  for  the  future.     A  new  horoscope 
I  would  cast :  will  you  read  it  ?    I  plead  for  a  hope  : 
I  plead  for  a  memory ;  yours,  yours  alone, 
To  restore  or  to  spare.     Let  the  hope  be  your  own, 
Be  the  memory  mine. 

"  Once  of  yore,  when  for  nmn 
Faith  yet  lived,  ere  this  age  of  the  sluggard  began, 
Men,  aroused  to  the  knowledge  of  evil,  fled  far 
From  the  fading  rose-gardens  of  sense,  to  the  war 
With  the  Pagan,  the  cave  in  the  desert,  and  sought 
Not  repose,  but  employment  in  action  or  thought, 
Life's  strong  earnest,  in  all  things  !  oh  think  not  of 

me, 
But  yourself !  for  I  plead  for  your  own  destiny  : 
I  plead  for  your  life,  with  its  duties  undone. 
With  Its  claims  unappeased,  and  its  trophies  un- 

won  : 
And  in  pleading  for  life's  fair  fulfilment.  I  plead^^ 
For  all  that  you  miss,  and  for  all  that  you  need." 

XI. 

Through  the  calm  crystal  air,  faint  and  far,  as  she 

spoke, 
A  clear,  chillv  chime  from  a  church-turret  broke  ; 


J^  'f^^ie&i 


286 


L  UCILE. 


And  the  sound  of  her  voice,  with  the  sound  of  the 

bell. 
On  his  ear,  where  he  kneel'd,  softly,  soothingly  fell. 
All  within  him  was  wild  and  confused,  as  within 
A  chamber  deserted  in  some  roadside  inn, 
Where,  passing,  wild  travellers   paused,  over-night, 
To  quaff  and  carouse  ;  in  each  socket  each  light 
Is  extinct  ;  crash'd  the  glasses,  and  scrawl'd  is  the 

wall 
With  wild  ribald  ballads  :  serenely  o'er  all, 
For  the  first  time  perceived,  where  the  dawn-light 

creeps  faint 
Through  the  wrecks  of   that  orgy,  the  face  of   a 

saint, 
Seen  through  some  broken  frame,   appears   noting 

meanwhile 
The  ruin  all  round  with  a  sorrowful  smile. 
And   he   gazed  round.     The  curtains  of  Darkness 

half  drawn 
Oped  behind    her;  and   pure  as   the  pure  light   of 

dawn 
She  stood,  bathed  in  morning,  and  seem'd  to  his  eyes 
From  their  sight  to  be  melting  away  in  the  skies 
That  expanded  around  her. 

XII. 

There  pass'd  through  his  head 
A  fancy — a  vision.     That  woman  was  dead 
He  had  loved  long  ago — loved  and  lost !  dead  to  him. 
Dead  to  all  the  life  left  him  ;  but  there,  m  the  dim 
Dewy  light  of  the  dawn,  stood  a  spirit  ;  't  was  hers  ; 


1 


LUCILE. 


287 


And  he  said  to  the  soul  of  Lucile  de  Nevers  : 
"  O  soul  to  its  sources  departing  away  ! 
Pray  for  mine,  if  one  soul  for  another  may  pray. 
I  to  ask  have  no  right,  thou  to  give  hast  no  power, 
One  hope  to  my  heart.     But  in  this  parting  hour 
I  name  not  my  heart,  and  I  speak  not  to  thine. 
Answer,  soul  of  Lucile,  to  this  dark  soul  of  mine. 
Does  not  soul  owe  to  soul,  what  to  heart  heart  denies, 
Hope,   when  hope  is   salvation  ?      Behold,   in  yon 

skies. 
This  wild  night  is  passing  away  while  I  speak  : 
Lo,  above  us,  the  day-spring  beginning  to  break  ! 
Something  wakens  within  me,  and  warms  to   the 

beam. 
Is  it  hope  that  awakens  ?  or  do  I  but  dream  ? 
I  know  not.     It  may  be,  perchance,  the  first  spark 
Of  a  new  light  within  me  to  solace  the  dark 
Unto  which  I  return  ;  or  perchance  it  may  be 
The  last  spark  of  fires  half  extinguish'd  in  me. 
I  know  not.     Thou  goest  thy  way  :  I  my  own  : 
For  good  or  for  evil,  I  know  not.     Alone 
This  I  know  ;  we  are  parting.    I  wish'd  to  say  more. 
But  no  matter  !  't  will  pass.     All  between  us  is  o'er. 
Forget  the  wild  words  of  to-night.    'T  was  the  pain 
For  long    years  hoarded    up,  that  rush'd    from    me 

again. 
I  was  unjust :  forgive  me.     Spare  now  to  reprove 
Other   words,  other   deeds.     It   was  madness,  not 

love. 
That  you  thwarted  this  night.    What  is  done  is  now 

done. 


€s^^^ 


288 


LUCILE. 


Death  remains  to  avenge  it,  or  life  to  atone. 
I  was  madden'd,  delirious !     I  saw  you  return 
To  him — not  to  me  ;  and  I  felt  my  heart  burn 
With  a  fierce  thirst  for  vengeance — and  thus  .  .  .  let 

it  pass  ! 
Long  thoughts  these,  and  so  brief  the  moments,  alas  ! 
Thou  goest  thy  way,  and  I  mine.     I  suppose 
'T  is  to  meet  nevermore.    Is  it  not  so  ?    Who  knows. 
Or  who  heeds,  where  the  exile  from  Paradise  flies  ? 
Or  what  altars  of  his  in  the  desert  may  rise  } 
Is  it  not  so,  Lucile  ?    Well,  well !    Thus  then  we  part 
Once  again,  soul  from  soul,  as  before  heart  from 

heart !" 

XIII. 

And  again  clearer  far  than  the  chime  of  the  bell. 
That  voice  on  his  sense  coftly,  soothingly  fell. 
"  Our  two  paths  must  part  us,  Eugene  ;  for  my  own 
Seems  no  more  through  that  world  in  which  henci-- 

forth  alone 
You  must  work  out  (as  now  I  believe  that  you  will) 
The  hope   which  you  speak  of.     That  work  I  shall 

still 
(If  I  live)  watch  and  welcome,  and  bless  far  away. 
Doubt  not  this.     But  mistake  not  the  thought,  if  I 

say, 
That  the  great  moral  combat  between  human  life 
And  each  human  soul  must  be  single.     The  strife 
None  can   share,  though  by   all  its  results  may   be 

knowii. 
When  the  soul  arms  for  battle,  she  goes  forth  alone. 
I  say  not,  indeed,  we  shall  meet  nevermore. 


\ 


'  And  again,  once  again,  we  shall  meet,  soul  to  soul !" — Page  289. 


L  UCILE. 


289 


For  I  know  not.    But  meet,  as  we  have  met  of  yore, 
I  know  that  we  cannot.     Perchance  we  may  meet 
By  the   death-bed,  the^  tomb,  in   the  crowd,  in  the 

street. 
Or  in  soHtude  even,  but  never  again 
Shall    we  meet  from    henceforth  as   we  have  met, 

Eugene. 
For  we  know  not  the  way  we  are  going,  nor  yet 
Where    our  two   ways   may  meet,  or   may    cross. 

Life  hath  set 
No  landmarks  before  us.     But  this,  this  alone, 
I  will  promise  :  whatever  your  path,  or  my  own. 
If,  for  once  in  the  conflict  before  you,  it  chance 
That  the  Dragon  prevail,  and  with  cleft  shield,  and 

lance 
Lost  or  shatter'd,  borne  down  by  the  stress  of  the 

war, 
You  falter  and  hesitate,  if  from  afar 
I,  still  watching  (unknown  to  yourself,  it  mav  be) 
O'er  the  conflict  to  which  I  conjure  you,  should  see 
That  my  presence  could   rescue,  support  you,  or 

guide. 
In  the  hour  of  that  need  I  shall  be  at  your  side. 
To  warn,  if  you  will,  or  incite,  or  control ; 
And  again,  once  again,  we  shall  meet,  soul  to  soul !" 

XIV. 

The  voice  ceased. 

He  uplifted  his  eyes. 

All  alone 
He  stood  on  the  bare  edge  of  dawn.  She  was  gone. 
Like  a  star,  when  up  bay  after  bay  of  the  night, 


Z  UCILE. 


Ripples  in,  wave  on  wave,  the  broad  ocean  of  light. 
And  at  once,  in  her  place,  was  the  Sunrise  !    It  rose 
In  its  sumptuous  splendor  and  solemn  repose, 
The  supreme  revelation  of  lig-ht.     Domes  of  gold. 
Realms  of  rose,  in  the  Orient !    And  breathless,  and 

bold. 
While  the  great  gates  of  heaven  roU'd  back  one  by- 
one, 
The  bright  herald  angel  stood  stern  in  the  sun ! 
Thrice  holy  Eospheros  !     Light's  reign  began 
In  the  heaven,  on  the  earth,  in  the  heart  of  the  man. 
The  dawn  on  the  mountains  I  the  dawn  everywhere  ! 
Light !  silence  !  the  fresh  innovations  of  air ! 
O  earth,  and  O  ether  !     A  butterfly  breeze 
Floated  up,  fluttered  down,  and  poised  blithe  on  the 

trees. 
Through  the  revelling  woods,  o'er  the  sharp-ripplcd 

stream. 
Up  the  vale  slow  uncoiling  itself  out  of  dream. 
Around  the  brown  meadows,  adown  the  hill-slope. 
The  spirits  of  morning  were  whispering,  "  Hopt- .'" 


*A 


He  uplifted  his  eyes.     In  the  place  where  she  stood 
But  a  moment  before,  and  where  now  roU'd  the  flood 
Of  the  sunrise  all  golden,  he  seem'd  to  behold. 
In  the  young  light  of  sunrise,  an  image  unfold 
Of  his  own  youth, — its  ardors — its  promise  of  fame — 
Its  ancestral  ambition  ;  and  France  by  the  name 
Of  his  sires  seem'd  to  call  him.     There,  hover'd  in 
light, 


'^ 


/.  UCILE. 


291 


That  image  aloft,  o'er  the  shapeless  and  bright 
And  Aurorean  clouds,  which  themselves  seem'd  to  be 
Brilliant  fragments  of  that  golden  world,  wherein  he 
Had  once  dwelt,  a  native  ! 

There,  rooted  and  bound 
To  the  earth,  stood  the  man,  gazing  at  it !     Around 
The  rims  of  the  sunrise  it  hover'd  and  shone 
Transcendent,  that  type  of  a  youth  that  was  gone ; 
And  he— as  the  body  may  yearn  for  the  soul. 
So  he  yearn'd  to  embody  that  image.     His  whole 
Heart  arose  to  regain  it. 

"  And  is  it  too  late  ?" 
No  !  for  Time  is  a  fiction,  and  limits  not  fate. 
Thought  alone  is  eternal.     Time  thralls  it  in  vain. 
For  the  thought  that  springs  upward  and  yearns  to 

regain 
The  pure  source  of  spirit,  there  is  no  T(30  LATE. 
As  the  stream  to  its  first  mountain  levels,  elate 
In  the  fountain  arises,  the  spirit  in  him 
Arose  to  that  image.     The  image  waned  dim 
Into  heaven  ;  and  heavenward  with  it,  to  melt 
As  it  melted,  in  day's  broad  expansion,  he  felt 
With  a  thrill,  sweet  and  strange,  and  intense— awed, 

amazed — 
Something  soar  and  ascend  in  his  soul,  as  he  gazed. 

— ♦ — 

CANTO  VI. 

I. 
Man  is  bom  on  a  battle-field.    Round  him.  to  rend 
Or  resist,  the  dread  Powers  he  displaces  attend. 


292 


L  UCILE. 


By  the  cradle  which  Nature,  amidst  the  stern  shocks 
That  have  shatter'd  creation,  and  shapen  it,  rocks. 
He  leaps  with  a  wail  into  being  ;  and  lo  I 
His  own  mother,  tierce  Nature  herself,  is  his  foe. 
Her  whirlwinds  are  roused  into  wrath  o'er  his  head  : 
'Neath  his  feet  roll  her  earthquakes  :    her  solitudes 

spread 
To  daunt  him  :  her  forces  dispute  his  command : 
Her  snows  fall    to    freeze  him  :  her  suns  burn  to 

brand  : 
Her  seas  yawn  to  engulf   him  :    her  rocks  rise  to 

crush  : 
And  the  lion  and  leopard,  allied,  lurk  to  rush 
On  their  startled  invader. 

In  lone  Malabar, 
Where  the  infinite  forest  spreads  breathless  and  far, 
'Mid  the  cruel  of  eye  and  the  stealthy  of  claw 
(Striped  and  spotted  destroyers  !)  he  sees,  pale  with 

awe, 
On  the  menacing  edge  of  a  fiery  sky 
Grim  Doorga,  blue-limb'd  and  red-handed,  go  by, 
And  the  first  thing  he  worships  is  Terror. 

Anon, 
Still  impell'd  by  necessity  hungrily  on. 
He  conquers  the  realms  of  his  own  self-reliance, 
And  the  last  cry  of  fear  wakes  the  first  of  defiance. 
From  the  serpent  he  crushes  its  poisonous  soul : 
Smitten  down  in  his  path  see  the  dead  lion  roll  I 
On  toward  Heaven  the  son  of  Alcmena  strides  high  on 
The  heads  of  the  Hydra,  the  spoils  of  the  lion  : 
And  man,  conquering  Terror,  is  worshipp'd  by  man. 


\ 


i 


LUCILE. 


293 


A  camp  has  this  world  beer,  since  first  it  began  ! 
From  his  tents  sweeps  the  roving  Arabian  ;  at  peace. 
A  mere  wandering  shepherd  that  follows  the  fleece ; 
But,  warring  his  way  through  a  world's  destinies, 
Lo  from  Delhi,  from  Bagdad,  from  Cordova,  rise 
Domes  of  empiry,  dower'd  with  science  and  art, 
Schools,  libraries,  forums,  the  palace,  the  mart ! 

New  realms  to  man's  soul  have  been  conquer'd.  But 
those. 

Forthwith  they  are  peopled  for  man  by  new  foes  ! 

The  stars  keep  their  secrets,  the  earth  hides  her  own. 

And    bold  must  the  man  be  that  braves  the  Un- 
known ! 

Not  a  truth  has  to  art  or  to  science  been  given. 

But  brows  have  ached  for  it,  and   souls  toil'd  and 
striven  ; 

And  many  have  striven,  and  many  have  fail'd, 

And  many  died,  slain  by  the  truth  they  assail'd. 

But  when    Man  hath   tamed   Nature,  asserted    his 
place 

And  dominion,  behold  !  he  is  brought  tace  to  face  ' 

With  a  new  foe — himself ! 

Nor  may  man  on  his  shield 

Ever  rest,  for  his  foe  is  forever  afield. 

Danger  ever  at  hand,  till  the  armed  Archangel 

Sound  o'er  him  the  trump  of  earth's  final  evangel. 

11. 

Silence  straightway,  stern  Muse,  the  soft  cyml:)als  of 
pleasure. 


f\ 


J^^fst» 


i 


294 


Z  UCILE. 


He   all  bionzeii    these   numbers,    and    martial    the 

measure  I 
Breathe,  sonorously  breathe,  o'er  the  spirit  in  me 
One  strain,  sad  and  stern,  of  that  deep  Epopee 
Which  thou,  from  the  fashionless  cloud  of  far  time, 
Chantest  lonely,  when  Victory,  pale,  and  sublime 
In  the  light  of  the  aureole  over  her  head, 
Hears,  and  heeds  not  the  wound  in  her  heart  fresh 

and  red 
Blown  wide  by  the  blare  of  the  clarion,  unfold 
The  shrill  clanging  curtains  of  war  ! 

And  behold 
A  vision  ! 

The  antique  Heraclean  seats  ; 
And    the   long    Black    Sea    billow  that  once    bore 

those  fleets, 
Which  said  to  the  winds,  "  Be  ye,  too,  Genoese !" 
And  the  red  angry  sands  of  the  chafed  Chersonese  ; 
And  the  two  foes  of  man,  War  and  Winter,  allied 
Round  the  Armies  of  England  and  France,  side  by 

side 
Enduring  and  dying  (Ciaul  and  Briton  abreast  I) 
Where  the  towers  of  the  North  fret  the  skies  of  the 

East. 

111. 

Since  that  sunrise,  which  rose  through  the  calm  lin- 
den stems 
<)"er  Lucile  and  Eugene  in  the  garden  at  Ems, 
Through  twenty-five  seasons  encircling  the  sun. 
This  planet  of  ours  on  its  pathway  hath  gone. 
And  the  fates  that  I  sing  of  have  flow'cl  with  the  fates 


\ 


^ 


^■:S*P^> 


LUCILE. 


295 


Of  a  world,  in  the  red  wake  of  war,  round  the  gates 

Of  that  doom'd  and  heroical  city,  in  which 

(Fire    crowning   the    rampart,  blood    bathing    the 

ditch  !) 
At  bay,  fights   the    Russian  as  some   hunted  bear, 
Whom  the  huntsmen  have  hemm'd  round  at  last  in 

his  lair. 

IV. 

A  fang'd,  arid  plain,  sapp'd  with  underground  fire, 
Soak'd  with  snow,  torn  with  shot,  mash'd  to  one 

gory  mire  I 
There  Fate's  iron  scale  hangs  in  horrid  suspense. 
While  those  two  famish'd  ogres  —  the  Siege,  the 

Defence, 
Face  to  face,  through  a  vapor  frore,  dismal,  and  dun. 
Glare,  scenting  the  breath  of  each  other. 

The  one 

Double-bodied,  two-headed— by  separate  ways 
Winding,  serpent-wise,  nearer  ;  the  other,  each  day's 
Sullen  toil  adding  size  to,  —  concentrated,  solid. 
Indefatigable— the  brass-fronted,  embodied. 
And  audible  «rroc  gone  sombrely  forth 
To  the  world  from  that  Autocrat  Will  of  the  north  ! 

V. 

In  the  dawn  of  a  moody  October,  a  pale 
Ghostly  motionless  vapor  began  to  prevail 
Over  city  and  camp  ;  like  the  garment  of  death 
Which  (is  form'd  by)  the  face  it  conceals. 

'T  was  the  breath 
War,  yet  drowsily  yawning,  began  to  suspire  ; 


L  UCILE. 


Wherethrough;  here  and  there,  flash'd  an  eye  of  red 

fire, 
And  closed,  from  some  rampart  beginning  to  bellow 
Hoarse  challenge ;    replied   to   anon,  through    the 

yellow 
And  sulphurous  twilight :  till  dayreel'd  and  rock'd, 
And    roar'd    into   dark.     Then   the   midnight   was 

mock'd 
With  fierce  apparitions.     Ring'd  round  by  a  rain 
Of  red  fire,  and  of  iron,  the  murtherous  plain 
Flared  with  fitful  combustion  ;  where  fitfully  fell 
Afar  off  the  fatal,  disgorged  sckarfienelle, 
And  fired  the  horizon,  and  singed  the  coil'd  gloom 
With  wings  of  swift  flame  round  that  City  of  Doom. 

VI. 

So  the  day — so  the  night !     So  by  night,  so  by  day. 
With  stern  patient  pathos,  while  time  wears  away, 
In  the  trench  flooded  through,  in  the  wind  where  it 

wails, 
In  the  snow  where  it  falls,  in  the  fire  where  it  hails 
Shot  and  shell — link  by  link,  out  of  hardship  and  pain. 
Toil,  sickness,  endurance,  is  forged  the  bronze  chain 
Of  those  terrible  siege-lines  ! 

No  change  to  that  toil 
Save  the    mine's   sudden  leap  from  the  treacherous 

soil. 
Save  the  midnight  attack,  save   the   groans  of  the 

maim'd. 
And  Death's  daily  obolus  due,  whether  claim'd 
By  man  or  by  nature. 


^ 


T3t 


Z  UCILE. 


297 


Time  passes.     The  dumb, 
Bitter,  snow-bound,  and  sullen  November  is  come. 
And  its  snows  have  been  bathed  in  the  blood  of  the 

brave  : 
And  many  a  young  heart  has  glutted  the  grave : 
And  on  Inkerman  yet  the  wild  bramble  is  gory. 
And  those  bleak  heights  henceforth  shall  be  famous 
in  story. 

VIII. 

The  moon,  swathed  in  storm,  has  long  set :  through 

the  camp 
No  sound  save  the  sentinel's  slow  sullen  tramp. 
The  distant  explosion,  the  wild  sleety  wind, 
That  seems  searching  for  something  it  never  can 

find. 
The  midnight  is  turning  :  the  lamp  is  nigh  spent  : 
And,  wounded  and  lone,  in  a  desolate  tent 
Lies  a  young  British  soldier  whose  sword  .  .  . 

In  this  place. 
However,  my  Muse  is  compell'd  to  retrace 
Her  precipitous  steps  and  revert  to  the  past. 
The  shock  which  had  suddenly  shatter'd  at  last 
Alfred  Vargrave's  fantastical  holiday  nature. 
Had  sharply  drawn  forth  to  his  full  size  and  stature 
The  real  man,  conceal'd  till  that  moment  beneath 
All    he  yet   had  appear'd.     From  the  gay  broider'd 

sheath 
Which  a  man  in  his  wrath  flings  aside,  even  so 
Leaps  the  keen  trenchant  steel  summoned  forth  by 

a  blow. 


i 


298 


Z  UCILE. 


And  thus  loss  of  fortune  gave  value  to  life. 

The  wife  gain'd  a  husband,  the  husband  a  wife. 

In  that  home  which,  though  humbled  and  narrow'd 

by  fate, 
Was  enlarged  and  ennobled  by  love.    Low  their  state. 
But  large  their  possessions. 

Sir  Ridley,  forgiven 
By  those  he  unwittingly  brought  nearer  heaven 
By  one  fraudulent  act,   than   through  all  his  sleek 

speech 
The  hypocrite  brought  his  own  soul,  safe  from  reach 
Of  the  law,  died  abroad. 

Cousin  John,  heart  and  hand, 
Purse    and    person,  henceforth   (honest  man  I)  took 

his  stand 
By  Matilda  and  Alfred  ;  guest,  guardian,  and  friend 
Of  the  home  he  both  shared  and  assured,  to  the  end. 
With  his  large  lively  love.     Alfred  \'argrave  mean- 
while 
Faced  the    world's  frown,    consoled  b\    his   wife's 

faithful  smile. 
Late  in  life,  he  began  life  in  earnest  ;  and  still, 
With  the  tranquil  exertion  of  resolute  will. 
Through  long,  and  laborious,  and  difficult  days. 
Out  of  manifold  failure,  by  wearisome  ways. 
Work'd  his  way    through  the  world  ;  till  at  last  he 

began 
(  Reconciled  to  the  work  which  mankind  claims  from 

man), 
After  years  of  unw^itness'd,  unwearied  endeavor. 
Years  impassion'd,  vet  patient,  to  realize  ever 


.J^^, 


^M., 


LU'CILE. 


299 


More  clear  on  the  broad  stream  of  current  opinion 
The  reflex  of  powers  in  himself — that  dominion 
Which  the  life  of  one  man,  if  his  life  be  a  truth, 
May   assert    o'er  the    life  of   mankind.     Thus,  his 

youth 
In  his  manhood  renew'd,  fame  and  fortune  he  won 
Working  only  for  home,  love,  and  duty. 

One  son 
Matilda  had  borne  him  ;  but  scarce  had  the  boy, 
With  all  Eton  yet  fresh  in  his  full  heart's  frank  joy. 
The  darling  of  young  soldier  comrades,  just  glanced 
Down  the  glad   dawn  of   manhood  at  life,  when  it 

chanced 
That  a    blight    sharp  and  sudden  was  breath'd  o'er 

the  bloom 
Of  his  joyous  and  generous  years,  and  the  gloom 
Of  a  grief  premature  on  their  fair  promise  fell  : 
No  light  cloud  like  those  which,  for  June  to  dispel, 
Captious  April  engenders ;  but  deep  as  his  own 
Deep  nature.     Meanwhile,  ere  I  fully  make  known 
The  cause  of  this  sorrow,  I  track  the  event. 
When  first  a  wild  war-note  through  England  was 

sent, 
He,  transferring  without  either  token  or  word, 
To  friend,  parent,  or  comrade,  a  yet  virgin  sword. 
From  a  holiday  troop,  to  one  bound  for  the  war. 
Had  march'd  forth,  with  eyes  that  saw  death  in  the 

star 
Whence   others  sought  glory.     Thus,  fighting,  he 

fell 
On  the  red  field  of  Inkerman  ;  found,  who  can  tell 


i  M 


0 


By  what  miracle,    breathing,  though  shatter'd,  and 

borne 
To  the  rear  by  his  comrades,  pierced,  bleeding,  and 

torn. 
Where  for  long  days  and  nights,  with  the  wound  in 

his  side, 
He  lay,  dark. 

IX. 

But  a  wound  deeper  far,  undescried. 
In    the  young   heart  was  rankling;  for  there,  of  a 

truth. 
In  the  first  earnest  faith  of  a  pure  pensive  youth, 
A  love  large  as  life,  deep  and  changeless  as  death, 
Lay  ensheath'd  :    and  that    love,  ever   fretting  its 

sheath, 
The  frail  scabbard  of  life  pierced  and  wore  through 

and  through. 
There  are  loves  in  man's  life  for  which  time  can  re- 


I,-, 


All  that  time  may  destroy.     Lives  there  are,  though, 

in  love. 
Which  cling  to  one  faith,  and  die  with  it  ;  nor  move, 
Though  earthquakes  may  shatter  the  shrine. 

Whence  or  how 
Love  laid  claim  to  this  young  life,  it  matters  not 
now. 

X. 

(^h  is  it  a  phantom  ?  a  dream  of  the  night  ? 
A  vision  which  fever  hath  fashion 'd  to  sight  .■* 
The  wind  wailing  ever,  with  motion  uncertain. 


«&i^^ 


LUCILE. 


3or 


Sways  sighingly  there   the  drench'd  tent's  tatter'd 

curtain, 
To  and  fro,  up  and  down. 

But  it  is  not  the  wind 
That  is  lifting  it  now  :  and  it  is  not  the  mind 
That  hath  moulded  that  vision. 

A  pale  woman  enters, 
As  wan  as  the  lamp's  waning   light,  which  con- 
centres 
Its  dull  glare  upon  her.     With  eyes  dim  and  dimmer 
There,  all  in  a  slumberous  and  shadowy  glimmer. 
The  sufferer  sees  that  still  form  floating  on, 
And  feels  faintly  aware  that  he  is  not  alone. 
She  is  flitting  before  him.     She  pauses.     She  stands 
By  his  bedside,  all  silent.     She  lays  her  white  hands 
On  the  brow  of  the  boy.     A  light  finger  is  pressing 
Softly,    softly   the    sore    wounds :    the  hot   blood- 

stain'd  dressing 
Slips  jrom  them.     A  comforting  quietude  steals 
Through  the  rack'd  weary  frame  ;  and,  throughout 

it,  he  feels 
The  slow  sense  of  a  merciful,  mild  neighborhood. 
Something  smooths  the  toss'd  pillow.     Beneath  a 

gray  hood 
Of  rough  serge,  two  intense  tender  eyes  are  bent 

o'er  him. 
And  thrill  through  and  through  him.     The  sweet 

form  before  him. 
It  is  surely  Death's  angel  Life's  last  vigil  keeping  ! 
A  soft  voice  says  ..."  Sleep  !" 

And  he  sleeps  :  he  is  sleeping. 


V. 


Mr 


302 


Z  UCILE. 


He  waked  before  dawn.     Still  the  vision  is  there  : 
Still   that  pale  woman  moves   not.     A   minist'ring 

care 
Meanwhile  has  been  silently  changing  and  cheering 
The  aspect  of  all  things  around  him. 

Revering 
Some  power  unknown  and  benignant,  he  bless'd 
In  silence  the  sense  of  salvation.     And  rest 
Having  loosen'd    the   mind's    tangled   meshes,    he 

faintly 
.Sigh'd  ..."  Say  what  thou  art,  blessed  dream  of 

a  saintly 
And  minist'ring  spirit  !" 

A  whisper  serene 
Slid,  softer  than  silence  .  .  .    •  The  Soeur  Seraphine, 
A  poor  Sister  of  Charity.     Shun  to  inquire 
Aught  further,  young  soldier.     The  son  of  thy  sire. 
For  the  sake  of   that  sire,  I  reclaim  from  the  grave. 
Thou  didst  not  shun  death  :    shun  not  life.     'T  is 

more  brave 
To  live,  than  to  die.     Sleep  !" 

He  sleeps  :  he  is  sleeping. 


H 


XII. 

He  waken'd  again,  when  the  dawn  was  just  stee])ing 

The  skies  with  chill  splendor.  And  there,  never 
flitting. 

Never  flitting,  that  \ision  of  mercy  was  sitting. 

As  the  dawn  to  the  darkness,  so  life  seem'd  re- 
turning 


Wm 


L  UCILE. 


3Q3 


Slowly,    feebly   within    him.     The    night-lamp,  yet 

burning, 
Made  ghastly  the  glimmering  daybreak. 

He  said, 
"  If  thou  be  of  the  living,  and  not  of  the  dead, 
Sweet  minister,  pour  out  yet  further  the  healing 
Of  that  balmy  voice  ;  if  it  may  be,  revealing 
Thy  mission  of  mercy  !  whence  art  thou  ?" 

"  O  son 

Of  Matilda  and  Alfred,  it  matters  not  !     One 

Who  is  not  of  the  living  nor  yet  of  the  dead  : 

To  thee,  and  to  others,  alive  yet "  .  .  .  she  said  .  .  . 

"  So  long  as  there  liveth  the  poor  gift  in  me 

Of  this  ministration  ;  to  them,  and  to  thee. 

Dead  in  all  things  beside.     A  French  Nun,  whose 

vocation 
Is  now  by  this  bedside.     A  nun  hath  no  nation. 
Wherever  man  suffers,  or  woman  may  soothe, 
There  her  land  !  there  her  kindred  !" 

She  bent  down  to  smooth 
The  hot  pillow  ;  and  added  ..."  Yet  more  than 

another 
Is  thy  life  dear  to  me.     For  thy  father,  thy  mother, 
I  knew  them— 1  know  them." 

"  Oh  can  it  be  ?  you  ! 

My  dearest  dear  father  !  my  mother  !  you  knew, 

You  know  them  ?" 

She  bow'd,  half  averting,  her  head 

In  silence. 

He  brokenly,  timidly  said, 
"  Do  they  know  I  am  thus  ?" 


-siiUHiHJHvmu 


-^!tf!w' 


304 


LUCILE. 


"  Hush  !"  .  .  .  she  smiled,  as  she  drew 
From  her  bosom  two  letters  :  and — can  it  be  true  ? 
That  beloved  and  familiar  writing  I 

He  burst 
Into  tears  ..."  My  poor  mother — my  father  I  the 

worst 
Will  have  reach'd  them  I" 

"  No,  no  !"  she  exclaim'd  with  a  smile, 
"  They  know  you  are  living ;  they  know  that  mean- 
while 
I  am  watching  beside  you.     Young  soldier,  weep 

not !" 
But  still  on  the  nun's  nursing  bosom,  the  hot 
Fever'd  brow  of  the  boy  weeping  wildly  is  press'd. 
There,  at  last,  the  young  heart  sobs  itself  into  rest : 
And    he  hears,   as  it    were    between    smiling  and 

weeping. 
The  calm  voice  say  ..."  Sleep  !" 

And  he  sleeps  :  he  is  sleeping. 

XIII. 

And  day  follow'd  day.     And,  as  wave  follows  wave. 
With  the  tide,  day  by  day,  life,  reissuing,  drave 
Through  that   young  hardy  frame    novel  currents 

of  health. 
Yet  some  strange  obstruction,  which  life's  self  by 

stealth 
Seem'd  to  cherish,  impeded  life's  progress.     And 

still 
A  feebleness,  less  of  the  frame  than  the  wi 
Clung  about  the  sick  man  :  hid  and  harbor'd  within 


lm'^>' 


A 


r  \  //; 


,:i€ 


L  UCILE. 


The  sad  hollow  eyes  :  pinch'd  the  cheek  pale  and 

thin  : 
And  clothed  the  wan  fingers  with  languor. 

And  there, 
Day  by  day,  night  by  night,  unremitting  in  care. 
Unwearied  in  watching,  so  cheerful  of  mien. 
And  so  gentle  of  hand,  sat  the  Soeur  Seraphine  ! 

XIV. 

A  strange  woman  truly  I  not  young ;  yet  her  face. 
Wan  and  worn  as  it  was,  bore  about  it  the  trace 
Of  a  beauty  which   time  could  not  ruin.     For  the 

whole 
()uiet  cheek,  youth's  lost  bloom  left  transparent,  the 

soul 
Seem'd  to  fill  with  its   own   light,   like   some  sunny 

fountain 
Everlastingly  fed  from  far  off  in  the  mountain 
That  pours,  in  a  garden  deserted,  its'  streams, 
And  all  the  more  lovely  for  loneliness  seems. 
So  that,  watchmg  that  face,  you  would  scarce  pause 

to  guess 
The  years  which  its  calm  careworn   lines  might  ex- 
press. 
Feeling  only  what  suffering  with  these   must   have 

past 
To  have  perfected  there  so  much  sweetness  at  last. 


Thus,  one  bronzen  evening,  when  day  had  put  ou 
His  brief  thrifty  fires,  and  the  wind  was  about. 
The  nun,  watchful  still  by  the  boy,  on  his  own 


L  UCILE. 

Laid  a  tirm  quiet  hand,  and  the  deep  tender  tone 
Of  her  voice  moved  the  silence. 

She  said  ..."  1  have  heal'd 
These  wounds  of  the  body.     Why  hast  thou  con- 

ceaKd, 
Young  soldier,  that  yet  open  wound  in  the  heart  ? 
Wilt  thou  trust  no  hand  near  it  ?" 

He  winced,  with  a  start, 
As  of  one  that  is  suddenly  touched  on  the  spot 
From  which  every  nerve  derives  suffering. 

••  What  ? 
Lies  my  heart,  then,  so  bare?"  he  moan"d  bitterly. 

"  Nay," 
With  compassionate  accents  she  hasten'd  to  say, 
"  Do  you  think  that  these  eyes    are  with   sorrow, 

young  man. 
So  all  unfamiliar,  indeed,  as  to  scan 
Her  features,  yet  know  them  not  .•' 

'•  Oh,  was  it  spoken. 
'  Go  ye  forth,  heal  the  sick,  lift  the  lo7U,  hind  the 

broken  .' ' 
Of  the  body  alone  ?     Is  our  mission,  then,  done, 
When  we  leave  the  bruised  hearts,  if  we  bind  the 

)ruised  bone  ? 
Nay,  is  not  the  mission  of  mercy  twofold  ? 
Whence  twofold,  perchance,   are  the   powers,  that 

we  hold 
To  fulfil  it,  of  Heaven !     For  Heaven  doth  still 
To  us,  Sisters,  it  may  be,  who  seek  it,  send  skill 
Won  from  long  intercourse  with  affliction,  and  art 
Help'd  of  Heaven,  to  bind  up  the  broken  of  heart. 


:j^ 


i^-' 

'.>.*i 


^"Vn' 


jf^ 


LCCILE. 


307 


Trust  to  me  !"     (His  two  feeble  hands  in  her  own 
She  drew  gently.)     "Trust  to  me!"  (she  said,  with 

soft  tone)  : 
•'  I  am  not  so  dead  in  remembrance  to  all 
I  have  died  to  in  this  world,  but  what  I  recall 
Enough  of  its  sorrow,  enough  of  its  trial. 
To  grieve  for  both — save  from  both  haply  I  The  dial 
Receives  many  shades,  and  each  points  to   the  sun. 
The  shadows  are  many,  the  sunlight  is  one. 
Life's  sorrows  still  fluctuate  :  God"s  love  does  not. 
And  His  love  is  unchanged,  when  it  changes  our  lot. 
Looking  up  to  this  light,  which  is  common  to  all. 
And  down  to  these  shadows,  on  each  side,  that  fall 
In  time's  silent  circle,  so  various  for  each. 
Is  it  nothing  to  know  that  they  never  can  reach 
So  far,  but  what  light  lies  beyond  them  forever  ? 
Trust  to  me  !     Oh,  if  in  this  hour  I  endeavor 
To  trace  the  shade  creeping  across  the  young  life 
Which,  in  prayer   till  this    hour,    I    have    watch'd 

through  its  strife 
With    the   shadow    of    death,   't  is   with    this    faith 

alone. 
That,  in  tracing  the  shade,  I  shall  find  out  the  sun. 
Trust  to  me !" 

She  paused  :  he  was  weeping.     Small  need 
Of  added  appeal,  or  entreaty,  indeed, 
Had  those  gentle  accents  to  win  from  his  pale 
-And  parch'd,  trembhng  lips,  as  it  rose,  the  brief  tale 
Of  a  life's  early  sorrow.     The  story  is  old, 
And  in  words  few  as  may  be  shall   straightwa)-  be 

told. 


"4'. 


3o8 


LUCILE. 


■% 


\  t^  <^*,'    Iff  it'       ■-.'■! 


A  few  years  ago,  ere  the  fair  form  of  I'eace 

Was  driven  from  Europe,  a  young  girl — the  niece 

Of  a  French  noble,  leaving  an  old  Norman  pile 

liy  the  wild  northern  seas,  came  to  dwell  for  awhile 

With  a  lady  allied  to  her  race — an  old  dame 

Of  a  threefold  legitimate  virtue,  and  name. 

In  the  Faubourg  Saint  Germain. 

Upon  that  fair  child. 
From  childhood,  nor  father  nor  mother  had  smiled. 
One  uncle  their  place  in  her  life  had  supplied. 
And  their  place  in  her  heart  :  she  had  grown  at  his 

side, 
And  under  his  roof-tree,  and  in  his  regard. 
From  childhood  to  girlhood. 

This  fair  orphan  ward 
Seem'd  the  sole  human  creature  that  lived    in    the 

heart 
Of  that  stern  rigid  man,  or  whose  smile   could  im- 
part 
One  ray  of  response  to  the  eyes  which,  abovT 
Her  fair  infant  forehead,  look'd  down  with  a  love 
That  seem'd  almost  stern,  so  intense  was  its  chill 
Lofty  stillness,  like  sunlight  on  some  lonely  hill 
Which  is  colder  and  stiller  than  sunlight  elsewhere. 
Grass  grew  in  the  court-yard  ;  the  chambers  were 

bare 
In  that  ancient  mansion  ;  when  first  the  stern  tread 
Of  its  owner  awaken'd  their  echoes  long  dead  : 
Bringing  with  him  this  infant  (the  child  of  a  brother), 
Whom,  dying,  the  hands  of  a  desolate  mother 


r£^ 


W' 


,.(* 


^•n 


LUC  I  I.E. 


309 


Had  placed  on  his  bosom.     T  was  said— right  or 

wrong — 
That,  in  the  lone  mansion,  left  tenantless  long. 
To  which,  as  a  stranger,  its  lord  now  retum'd. 
In  years  yet  recall'd,  through   loud   midnights  had 

burn'd 
The  light  of  wild  orgies.     Be  that  false  or  true, 
Slow  and  sad  was  the  footstep  which  now  wander'd 

through 
Those  desolate  chambers  ;  and  calm  and  severe 
Was  the  life  of  their  inmate. 

Men  now  saw  appear 
Every  morn  at  the  mass  that  firm  sorrowful  face, 
Which  seem'd  to  lock  up  in  a  cold  iron  case 
Tears  harden'd  to  crystal.     Yet  harsh  if  he  were, 
His  severity  seem'd  to  be  trebly  severe 
In  the  rule  of  his  own  rigid  life,  which,  ac  least, 
Was  benignant  to  others.     The  poor  parish  priest. 
Who  lived  on  his  largess,  his  piety  praised. 
The  peasant  was  fed,  and  the  chapel  was  raised. 
And  the  cottage  was  built,  by  his  liberal  hand. 
Yet  he  seem'd  in  the  midst  of  his  good  deeds  to  stand 
A  lone,  and  unloved,  and  unlovable  man. 
There  appear'd  some  inscrutable  flaw  in  the  plan 
Of  his  life,  that  love  fail'd  to  pass  over. 

That  child 

Alone  did  not  fear  him,  nor  shrink  from  him  ;  smiled 
To  his  frown,  and  dispell'd  it. 

The  sweet  sportive  elf 
Seem'd  the  type  of  some  joy  lost,  and  miss'd,  in 
himself. 


a/ 


3IO 


Z  UCILE. 


Ever  welcome  he  suffer'd  her  glad  face  to  glide 
In  on  hours  when  to  others  his  door  was  denied  : 
And  many  a  time  with  a  mute  moody  look 
He  would  watch    her  at    prattle  and    play,  like   a 

brook 
Whose  babble  disturbs  not  the  quietest  spot, 
But  soothes  us  because  we  need  answer  it  not. 

But  few  years  had  pass'd  o'er  that  childhood  before 
A  change  came  among  them.  A  letter,  which  bore 
Sudden    consequence   with    it,    one   morning   was 

placed 
In  the  hands  of  the  lord  of  the  chateau.     He  paced 
To  and  fro  in  his  chamber  a  whole  night  alone 
After  reading  that  letter.     At  dawn  he  was  gone. 
Weeks  pass'd.     When  he  came  back  again  he  re- 
turn d 
With  a  tall    ancient    dame,  from    whose    lips    the 

child  learn'd 
That  they  were  of  the  same  race  and  name.     With 

a  face 
Sad  and  anxious,  to  this  wither'd  stock  of  the  race 
He  confided  the  orphan,  and  left  them  alone 
In  the  old  lonely  house. 

In  a  few  days  't  was  known. 
To  the  angry  surjirise  ot  half  Paris,  that  one 
Of  the  chiefs  of  that  party  which,  still  clinging  on 
To  the  banner  that  bears  the  white  lilies  of  France, 
Will  fight  'neath  no  other,  nor  yet  for  the  chance 
Of  restoring  their  own,  had  renounced  the  watch- 
word 


'?-"'4^ 


"And  many  a  time  with  a  mute  moody  look 
He  would  watcli  lier  at  prattle  and  play."— Page  310. 


'■•■•■asnKSl^ 


/;jg^£imJB^M^ 


LUCILE.  311 

And  the  creed  of  his  youth  in  unsheathing  his  sword 
For  a  Fatherland  fathered  no  more  (such  is  fate  !) 
By  legitimate  parents. 

And  meanwhile,  elate 
And  in  no  wise  disturbed  by  what  Paris  might  say. 
The  new  soldier  thus  wrote  to  a  friend  far  away  :— 
"  To  the  life  of  inaction  farewell !     After  all, 
Creeds  the  oldest  may  crumble,  and  dynasties  fall. 
But  the  sole  grand  Legitimacy  will  endure. 
In  whatever  makes  death  noble,  life  strong  and  pure. 
Freedom  !  action  !  ...  the  desert  to  breathe  in  - 

the  lance 
Of  the  Arab  to  follow  !     I  go  !      Vra-  hi  France  f" 

Few  and  rare  were  the  meetings  henceforth,  as  years 

fled, 
Twixt  the  child  and  the  soldier.     The  two  women 

led 
Lone  lives  in  the  lone  house.     Meanwhile  the  child 

grew 
Into  girlhood  ;  and,  like  a  sunbeam,  sliding  through 
Her  green  quiet  years,  changed  by  gentle  degrees 
To  the  loveliest  vision  of  youth  a  youth  sees 
In  his  loveliest  fancies  :  as  pure  as  a  pearl. 
And  as  perfect :  a  noble  and  innocent  girl, 
With  eighteen  sweet  summers  dissolved  in  the  light 
Of  her  lovely  and  lovable  eyes,  soft  and  bright  I 
Then  her  guardian  wrote  to  the  dame,  ..."  Let 

Constance 
(io  with  you  to  Paris.     I  trust  that  in  France 
I  may  be  ere  the  close  of  the  year.     I  confide 


Z  UCILE. 


My  life's  treasure  to  you.     Let  her  see,  at  your  side, 
The  world  which  we  live  in." 

To  Paris  then  came 
Constance  to  abide  with  that  old  stately  dame 
In  that  old  stately  Fauborg. 

The  young  Englishman 
'  T  was  there  their  acquaintance 


That  old  miracle  —  Love-at-first- 


Thus   met   her. 

began, 
There  it  closed. 

sight  — 
Needs  no  explanations.     The  heart  reads  aright 
Its  destiny  sometimes.     His  love  neither  chidden 
Nor  check'd,  the  young  soldier  was  graciously  bid- 
den 
An  habitual  guest  to  the  house  by  the  dame. 
His  own  candid  graces,  the  world-honor'd  name 
Of  his  father  (in  him  not  dishonor'd)  were  both 
Fair  titles  to  favor.     His  love,  nothing  loath. 
The  old  lady  observed,  was  return'd  by  Constance. 
And  as  the  child's  uncle  his  absence  from  France 
Yet  prolonged,  she  (thus  easing  long   self-gratuia- 

tion) 
Wrote  to  him  a  lengthen'd  and  moving  narration 
Of  the  graces  and  gifts  of  the  young  English  wooer : 
His  father's  fair  fame  ;  the  boy's  deference  to  her ; 
His  love  for  Constance,  —  unaffected,  sincere  ; 
And  the  girl's  love  for   him,  read  by  her  in  those 

clear 
Limpid   eyes ;  then   the    pleasure    with    which    slie 

awaited 
Her  cousin's  approval  of  all  she  had  stated. 


p^^^m 


LUCILE. 


313 


At  length  from  that  cousin  an  answer  there  came, 
Brief,  stern ;    such   as  stunn'd  and    astonish'd  the 

dame. 
"  Let  Constance  leave  Paris  with  you  on  the  day 
You  receive  this.     Until  my  return  she  may  stay 
At  her  convent  awhile.     If  my  niece  wishes  ever 
To  behold  me  again,  understand,  she  will  never 
Wed  that  man. 

"  You  have  broken  faith  with  me.     Farewell  !" 

No  appeal  from  that  sentence. 

It  needs  not  to  tell 
The  tears  of  Constance,  nor  the  grief  of  her  lover  : 
The  dream  they  had  laid  out  their  lives  in  was  over. 

Bravely  strove  the  young  soldier  to  look  in  the  face 
Of  a  life,  where  invisible  hands  seem'd  to  trace 
O'er  the  threshold,  these  words  ..."  Hope  no  more  !" 

Unreturn'd 
Had  his  love   been,  the  strong  manful  heart  would 

have  spurn 'd 
That  weakness  which  suffers  a  woman  to  lie 
At  the  roots  of  man's  life,  like  a  canker,  and  dry 
And  wither  the  sap  of  life's  purpose.     But  there 
Lay  the  bitterer  part  of  the  pain  !     Could  he  dare 
To  forget  he  was  loved  ?  that  he  grieved  not  alone  ? 
Recording  a  love  that  drew  sorrow  upon 
The  woman  he  loved,  for  himself  dare  he  seek 
Surcease  to  that  sorrow,  which  thus  held  him  weak, 
Beat  him  down,  and  destroy 'd  him  ? 

News  reach "d  him  indeed, 


J 


I 


314 


Z  UCILE. 


■'-^' 


.P< 


Tlirough  a  comrade,  who  brought  him  a  letter  to 

read 
From  the  dame  who  had  care  of  Constknce  (it  was 

one 
To  whom,  when  at  Paris,  the  boy  had  been  known, 
A  Frenchman,  and  friend  of  the  Faubourg),  which 

said 
That  Constance,  although  never  a  murmur  betray'd 
What  she  sufTer'd,  in  silence  grew  paler  each  day, 
And  seem'd  visibly  drooping  and  dying  away. 
It  was  then  he  sought  death. 

XVII. 

Thus  the  tale  ends.     T  was  told 
With  such  broken,  passionate  words,  as  unfold 
In  glimpses  alone,  a  coil'd  grief.      Through  each 

pause 
Of  its  fitful  recital,  in  raw  gusty  flaws, 
The  rain  shook  the  canvas,  unheeded  ;  aloof. 
And  unheeded,  the  night-wind  around  the  tent-roof 
At  intervals  wirbled.     And  when  all  was  said, 
The   sick   man,  exhausted,   droop'd  backward    his 

head. 
And  fell  into  a  feverish  slumber. 

Long  while 
Sat  the  Soeur  Scrajihine,  in  deep  thought.     The  still 

smile 
That  was  wont,  angel-wise,  to  inhabit  her  face 
And  make  it  like  heaven,  was  fled  from  its  place 
In  her  eyes,  on  her  lips  ;  and  a  deep  sadness  there 
Seem'd  to  darken  the  lines  of  long  sorrow  and  care. 


§- 


w. 


LUCILE.  3 '5 

As  low  to  herself  she  sigh'd  .  .  . 

"  Hath  it,  Eugene, 
Been  so  long,  then,  the  struggle  ?  .  .   .  and   yet,  all 

in  vain  ! 
Nay,  not  all  in  vain  !     Shall  the  world  gain  a  man. 
And  yet  Heaven  lose  a  soul  ?     Have  1  done  all  I  can  ? 
Soul  to  soul,  did  he  say  ?     Soul  to  soul,  be  it  so  ! 
And  then — soul  of  mine,  whither?  whither?" 

XVIII. 

Large,  slow, 

Silent  tears  in  those  deep  eyes  ascended,  and  fell. 

^'  Here,  at  least,  I  have  fail'd  not  "...  she  mused 

..."  this  is  well  !" 
She  drew  from  her  bosom  two  letters. 

In  one, 
A  mother's  heart,  wild  with  alarm  for  her  son. 
Breathed  bitterly  forth  its  despairing  appeal. 
"  The  pledge  of  a  love  owed  to  thee,  O  Lucile  ! 
The  hope  of  a  home  saved  by  thee — of  a  heart 
Which    hath  never  since  then    (thrice  endear'd  as 

thou  art  !) 
Ceased  to  bless  thee,  to  pray  for  thee,  save  !  .  .  . 

save  my  son  ! 
And  if  not  "...  the  letter  went  brokenly  on. 
"  Heaven  help  us  !" 

Then  follow'd,  from  Alfred,  a  few 
Blotted  heart-broken  pages.     He  mournfully  drew. 
With  pathos,  the  picture  of  that  earnest  youth. 
So  unlike  his  own  :  how  in  beauty  and  truth 
He  had  nurtured  that  nature,  so  simple  and  brave  ! 
And  how  he  had  striven  his  son's  youth  to  save 


S 


fii^ 


Y7^r 


3i6 


L  UCILE. 


From  the  errors  so  sadly  redeem'd  in  his  own, 
And  so  deeply  repented  :  how  thus,  in  that  son. 
In  whose  youth  he  had    garner'd  his  age,  he  had 

seem'd 
To  be  bless'd  by  a  pledge    that   the  jiast   was  re- 
deem'd. 
And  forgiven.     He  bitterly  went  on  to  speak 
Of  the  boy's  baffled   love;  in  which  fate  seem"cl   to 

break 
Unawares  on  his  dreams  with  retributive  pain, 
And  the  ghosts  of  the  past  rose  to  scourge  back  again 
The  hopes  of  the  future.     To  sue  for  consent 
Pride  forbade  :  and  the  hope  his  old  foe  might  relent 
Experience  rejected  .  .  .  "My  life  for  the  boy's  I' 
(He  exclaim 'd);  "for  I  die  with  my  son,  if  he  dies! 
Lucile  !  Heaven  bless  you  for  all  you  have  done  ! 
Save  him,  save  him,  Lucile !  save  my  son  !  save  my 
son  !" 

XIX. 

"Ay!"  murmur'd  the  Soeur  Seraphine  .  .  .  "heart 

to  heart ! 
There,  at  least,  I  have  fail'd  not!     FultiU'd  is  mv 

part  .-* 
Accomplish 'd   my   mission  }      One  act  crowns  the 

whole. 
Do  I  linger.'     Nay,   be  it  so,  then  !  .  .  .  Soul    to 

soul !" 
She  kntlt  clown,  and  prav'd.     Still  the  boy  slumber'd 

on. 
Dawn  broke.       The  pale  nun  from  the  bedside  was 

gone. 


..-     ■? 


w^rm^'W^ 


/.  UCILE. 


3n 


Meanwhile,  'mid  his  aides-de-camp,  busily  bent 
O'er  the  daily  reports,  in  his  well-order 'd  tent 
There  sits  a  French  General —  bronzed  by  the  sun 
And  sear'd  by  the  sands  of  Algeria.     One 
Who  forth  from  the  wars  of  the  wild  Kabylee 
Had  strangely  and  rapidly  risen  to  be 
The  idol,  the  darHng,  the  dream  and  the  star 
Of  the  younger  French  chivalry  :  daring  in  war, 
And  wary  in  council.     He  enter'd,  indeed, 
Late  in  life  (and  discarding  his  Bourbonite  creed) 
The  Army  of  France ;  and  had  risen,  in  part 
From  a  singular  aptitude  proved  for  the  art 
Of  that  wild  desert  warfare  of  ambush,  surprise, 
And  stratagem,  which  to  the  French  camp  supplies 
Its  subtlest  intelligence  ;  partly  from  chance  ; 
Partly,  too,  from  a  name  and  position  which  France 
Was  proud  to  put  forward ;  but  mainly,  in  fact. 
From  the  prudence  to  plan,  and  the  daring  to  act, 
In  frequent  emergencies  startlingly  shown, 
To  the  rank  which  he  now  held, — intrepidly  won 
With  many  a  wound,  trench'd  in  many  a  scar. 
From  fierce  Milianah  and  Sidi-Sakhdar. 


.■\11   within,  and  without,  that  warm  tent  seems  to 

bear 
Smiling  token  of  provident  order  and  care. 
All  about,  a  well-fed,  well-clad  soldiery  stands 
In  groups  round  the  music  of  mirth-breathing  bands. 
In  and  out  of  the  tent,  all  day  long,  to  and  fro. 


L  UCILE. 

The  messengers  come,  and  the  messengers  go, 
Upon  missions  of  mercy,  or  errands  of  toil  : 
To  report  how  the  sapper  contends  with  the  soil 
In  the  terrible  trench,  how  the  sick  man  is  faring 
In  the  hospital  tent :  and,  combining,  comparing, 
Constructing,  within  moves  the  brain  of  one  man, 
.Mo\  ing  all. 

He  is  bending  his  brow  o'er  some  plan 
For  the  hospital  service,  wise,  skilful,  humane. 
The  officer  standing  beside  him  is  fain 
To  refer  to  the  angel  solicitous  cares 
Of  the  Sisters  of  Charity  :  one  he  declares 
To   be   known   through    the  camp    as  a  seraph  of 

grace  : 
He  has  seen,  all  have  seen  her  indeed,  in  each  place 
Where  suffering  is  seen,  silent,  active— the  Soeur  .  .  . 
Soeur  .  .  .  how  do  they  call  her.^ 

"  Ay,  truly,  of  her 
1  have  heard  much,"  the  General,  musing,  replies  ; 
"  And  we  owe  her  already  (unless  rumor  lies) 
The  lives  of  not  few  of  our  bravest.     You  mean  .  .  . 
Ay,  how  they  do  call  her.?  .  .  .  the  Soeur— Seraphine 
(Is  it  not  so  ?).     I   rarely  forget  names  once  heard." 

"Yes;  the  Stfur  Seraphine.     Her  I  meant." 

"  On  my  word, 
I  have  much  wish'd  to  see  her.     I  fancy  I  trace, 
In  some  facts  traced  to  her,  .something  more  than 

the  grace 
Of  an  angel :  I  mean  an  acute  human  mind. 
Ingenious,  constructive,  intelligent.     Kind, 


\ 


L  UCILE. 


319 


And,  if  possible,  let  her  come  to  me.     We  shall, 
I  think,  aid  each  other."' 

•'  Qui,  mon  General  ; 
I  believe  she  has  lately  obtain'd  the  permission 
To  tend  some  sick  man  in  the  Second  Division 
Of  our  Ally  :  they  say  a  relation." 

"  Ay,  so  ? 
A  relation  .-'" 

'•  'T  is  said  so." 

"  The  name  do  you  know  ?' 
"  Xofi,  moil  General." 

While  they  spoke  )et,  there  went 
A  murmur  and  stir  round  the  door  of  the  tent. 
"  A  Sister  of  Charity  craves,  in  a  case 
Of  urgent  and  serious  importance,  the  grace 
Of  brief  private  speech  with  the  General  there. 
Will  the  General  speak  with  her  ?" 

••  Bid  her  declare 
Her  mission." 

•'  She  will  not.     She  craves  to  be  seen 
And  be  heard." 

•'  Well,  her  name  then.?" 

"  The  Soeur  Seraphine." 
■■  Clear  the  tent.     She  may  enter." 

XXll. 

The  tent  has  been  clear'd 

The  chieftain  stroked  moodily  somewhat  his  beard 

A  sable  long  silver'd  :  and  press'd  down  his  brow 

On  his  hand,  heavy   vein"d.     All  his  countenance, 

now 


320 


Z  UCILE. 


Unwitness'd,  at  once  fell  dejected,  and  drearv, 
As  a  curtain  let  fall  by  a  hand  that  's  grown  weary. 
Into  puckers  and  folds.    From  his  lips,  unrepress'd, 
Steals  th'    impatient  quick  sigh,  which   reveals   in 

man's  breast 
A  conflict  conceal'd,  an  experience  at  strife 
With  itself. — the  vex'd   heart's  passing  protest  on 

life. 
He  turn'd  to  his   papers.      He  heard  the  light  tread 
Of  a  faint  foot  behind  him  :  and,  lifting  his  head. 
Said,  "  Sit,  Holy  Sister !  your  worth  is  well  known 
To  the  hearts  of  our  soldiers  ;  nor  less  to  mv  own. 
I  have  much  wish'd  to  see  you.     I  owe  you  some 

thanks : 
In  the  name  of  all  those  you  have  saved  to  our  ranks 
I  record  them.     Sit  I     Now  then,  your  mission  }" 

The  nun 
Paused  silent.     The  General  eyed  her  anon 
More  keenly.    His  aspect  grew  troubled.  A  change 
Darken 'd    over   his    features.       He    mutter'd   .   .  . 

"  Strange  I  strange  ! 
Any  face  should  so  strongly  remind  me  of  Iwr .' 
Fool  !  again  the  delirium,  the  dream  !  does  it  stir.' 
Does  it  move  as  of  old  }     Psha  I 

"  Sit,  Sister  !   1  wait 
Your  answer,  my  time  halts  but  hurriedly.     .State 
The  cause  why  you  seek  me  ?" 

"  The  cause  ?  ay,  the  cause  .'' 
She  vaguely  repeated.     Then,  after  a  pause, — 
.'Vs  one  who,  awaked  unawares,  would  put  back 
The  sleep  that  forever  returns  in  the  track 


m 


L  UCILE. 


321 


'-ag. 


0{  dreams  which,  though  scared  and  dispersed,  not 

the  less 
Settle  back  to  faint  eyelids   that  yield   'neath    their 

stress. 
Like  doves  to  a  penthouse, — a  movement  she  maile, 
Less  toward  him  than  away  from  herself;  droop'd 

her  head 
And  folded  her  hands  on  her  bosom  :  long,  spare, 
f^atigued,  mournful  hands  !     Not  a  stream  of  stray 

hair 
Escaped  the   pale    bands ;    scarce  more  pale  than 

the  face 
Which  thev  bound  and   lock'd  up  in   a  rigid   white 

case. 
She   fix'd  her  eyes  on   him.     There   crept   a  vague 

awe 
O'er  his  sense,  such  as  ghosts  cast. 

"  Eugene  de  Luvois, 
The  cause  which  recalls  me  again  to  your  side. 
Is  a  promise  that  rests  unfulfiU'd,"  she  replied. 
"  I  come  to  fulfil  it." 

He  sprang  from  the  place 
Where  he  sat,  press'd  his  hand,  as   in  doubt,  o'er 

his  face  ; 
And,  cautiously  feeling  each  step  o'er  the  ground 
That  he  trod  on  (as  one  who  walks    fearing   the 

sound 
Of  his  footstep  may  startle  and  scare  out  of  sight 
Some  strange  sleeping  creature  on  which  he  would 

'light 
Unawares),  crept  towards  her;  one  heavy  hand  laid 


Z  UCILE. 


On  her  shoulder  in  silence  ;  bent  o'er  her  his  head, 
Search'd  her  face  with    a   long   look    of    troubled 

appeal 
Against    doubt;    stagger'd    backward,    and    mur- 

mur'd  ..."  Lucile  ! 
Thus  we  meet  then  ?  .  .  .  here  !  .  .  .  thus  .'" 

"  .Soul  to  soul,  ay,  Eugene, 
As  I  pledged  you  my  word  that  we    should   meet 

again. 
Dead,  .  .  ."  she  murmur'd,  "long  dead  !  all  that 

lived  in  our  lives — 
Thine  and  mine — saving  that  which  ev'n  life's  self 

survixes. 
The  soul !     'T  is  my  soul  seeks  thine  own.     What 

may  reach 
From  my  life  to  thy  life  (so  wide  each  from  each  !| 
Save  the  soul  to  the  soul  ?     To  thy  soul  I   would 

speak. 
.May  I  do  so?" 

He  said  (work 'd  and  white  was  his  cheek 
.A.s  he  raised  it),  "  Speak  to  me  !" 

Deep,  tender,  serene, 
And  sad' was  the  gaze  which  the  Soeur  Seraphine 
Held  on  him.     She  spoke. 

XXIII. 

As  some  minstrel  may  fling, 
Preluding  the  music  yet  mute  in  each  string, 
A  swift  hand  athwart  the  hush'd  heart  of  the  whole. 
Seeking  which  note  most  fitly  may  first  move  the 
soul  ; 


R  > 

p     3 


-0   P 

CD      CL 


HI 


L  UCILE. 


323 


And,  leaving  untroubled  the  deep  chords  below, 

Move  pathetic  in  numbers  remote  ; — even  so 

The  voice  which  was  moving  the  heart  of  that  man 

Far  away  from  its  yet  voiceless  purpose  began. 

Far  away  in  the  pathos  remote  of  the  past ; 

Until,  through  her  words,  rose   before  him,  at  last. 

Bright  and   dark  in   their  beauty,  the  hopes   that 

were  gone 

UnaccompHsh'd  from  life. 

He  was  mute. 

XXIV. 

She  went  on. 
And  still  further  down  the  dim  past  did  she  lead 
Each  yielding  remembrance,  far,  far  off,  to  feed 
'Mid  the  pastures  of  youth,  in  the  twilight  of  hope, 
And  the  valleys  of  boyhood,  the  fresh-flower'd  slope 
Of  life's  dawning  land ! 

T  is  the  heart  of  a  boy, 
With  its  indistinct,  passionate  prescience  of  joy ! 
The  unproved  desire— the  unaim'd  aspiration— 
The  deep  conscious  life  that  forestalls  consumma- 
tion ; 
With  ever  a  flitting  delight— one  arm's  length 
In  advance  of  the  august  inward  impulse. 

The  strength 
Of  the  spirit  which  troubles  the  seed  in  the  sand 
With  the  birth  of  the  palm-tree  !     Let  ages  expand 
The  glorious  creature  !     The  ages  lie  shut 
(Safe,  see  !)  in  the  seed,  at  time's  signal  to  put 
Forth  their  beauty  and  power,  leaf  by  leaf,  layer  on 
layer, 


'x^m^ 


L  UCILE. 


Till  the  palm  strikes  the  sun,  and  stands  broad  in 

blue  air. 
So  the  palm    in   the  palm-seed  !    so,   slowly  —  so, 

wrought 
Year  by  year  unperceived,   hope    on  hope,  thought 

by  thought. 
Trace  the  growth  of  the  man  from  its  germ  in  the 

boy. 
Ah,  but  Nature,  that  nurtures,  may  also  destroy  1 
Charm    the  wind  and    the  sun,  lest    some  chance 

intervene  I 
While  the  leaf 's  in  the  bud,  while  the  stem  's  in  the 

green, 
A  Ught  bird  bends  the  branch,  a  light  breeze  breaks 

the  bough, 
Which,  if  spared  by  the  light  breeze,  the  light  bird, 

may  grow 
To  bafifle  the  tempest,  and  rock  the  high  nest. 
And  take  both  the  bird  and  the  breeze  to  its  breast. 
Shall  we  save  a  whole  forest  in  sparing  one  seed  } 
Save  the  man  in  the  boy  ?  in  the  thought  save  the 

deed? 
Let  the  whirlwind  uproot  the  grown  tree,  if  it  can ! 
Save  the  seed    from   the   north  wind.     So  let   the 

grown  man 
Face  out  fate.     Spare  the  man-seed  in  youth. 

He  was  dumb. 
She  went  one  step  further. 

XXV. 

Lo  !  manhood  is  come. 
And  love,  the  wild  song-bird,  hath  tlown  to  the  tree, 


V^ 


L  UCILE. 


325 


Aiul  the  whirlwind  comes  after.     Now  prove  we, 

and  see  : 
What  shade  from  the  leaf?  what  support  from  the 

branch  ? 
Spreads  the  leaf  broad  and  fair  ?  holds  the  bough 

strong  and  stanch  ? 
There,  he  saw  himself— dark,  as  he  stood  on  that 

night. 
The  last  when  they  met  and  they  parted  :  a  sight 
For  heaven  to  mourn  o'er,  for  hell  to  rejoice ! 
An  ineffable  tenderness  troubled  her  voice  ; 
It  grew  weak,  and  a  sigh  broke  it  through. 

Then  he  said 
(Never  looking  at  her,  never  lifting  his  head. 
As  though,  at  his  feet,  there  lay  visibly  hurl'd 
Those  fragments),  "  It  was  not  a  love,  't  was  a  world, 
'T  was  a  life  that  lay  ruin'd,  Lucile  !" 

XXVI. 

She  went  on, 
"  So  be  it !  Perish  Babel,  arise  Babylon  1 
From  ruins  like  these  rise  the  fanes  that  shall  last, 
And  to  build  up  the  future  heaven  shatters  the  past.'* 
"  Ay," he  moodily murmur'd,  "and who  cares  to  scan 
The  heart's  perish'd  world,  if  the  world  gains  a  man  ? 
From  the  past  to  the  present,  though  late,  I  appeal ; 
To  the  nun  Seraphine,  from  the  woman  Lucile  !" 

XXVII. 

Lucile  !  .  .  .  the  old  name— the  old  self !  silenced 

long : 
Heard  once  more  !  felt  once  more  ! 


«SI 


w 


'^^' 


326 


Z  UCILE. 


As  some  soul  to  the  throng 
Of  invisible  spirits  admitted,  baptized 
By  death  to  a  new  name  and  nature — surprised 
'Mid  the  songs  of  the  seraphs,  hears  faintly,  and  far, 
Some  voice  from  the  earth,  left  below  a  dim  star. 
Calling  to  her  forlornly;  and  (sadd'ning  the  psalms 
Of  the  angels,  and  piercing  the  Paradise  palms  I) 
The  name  borne  'mid  earthly  beloveds  on  earth 
Sigh'd  above  some  lone  grave  in  the  land  of  her 

birth  ;— 
So    that    one   word  .  .  .  Lucile !    .  .  ,  stirr'd    the 

Soeur  Seraphine, 
For  a  moment.     Anon  she  resumed  her  serene 
And  concentrated  calm. 

"  Let  the  Nun,  then,  retrace 
The  life  of  the  Soldier  I"  .  .  .  she  said,  with  a  face 
That  glow'd,  gladdening  her  words. 

"  To  the  Present  I  come  : 
Leave  the  Past  !" 

There  her  voice  rose,  and  seem'd  as  when  some 
Pale  Priestess  proclaims  from  her  temple  the  praise 
Of  the  hero  whose  brows  she  is  crowning  with  bays. 
Step  by  step  did  she  follow  his  path  from  the  place 
Where  their  two  paths  diverged.     Year  by  year  did 

she  trace 
(Familiar  with  all)  his,  the  soldier's  existence. 
Her  words  were  of  trial,  endurance,  resistance  ; 
Of  the  leaguer  around  this  besieged  world  of  ours  : 
And  the  same  sentinels  that  ascend  the  same  towers 
And  report  the  same  foes,  the  same  fears,  the  same 

strife, 


^m. 


LUCILE. 


327 


Waged  alike  to  the  limits  of  each  human  life. 
She  went  on  to  speak  of  the  lone  moody  lord. 
Shut  up  in  his  lone  moody  halls  :  every  word 
Held  the  weight  of  a  tear  :  she  recorded  the  good 
He  had  patiently  wrought  through  a  whole  neigh- 
borhood ; 
And  the  blessing  that  lived  on  the  lips  of  the  poor, 
By  the  peasant's  hearthstone,  or  the  cottager's  door. 
There  she  paused  :  and  her  accents  seem'd  dipp'd 

in  the  hue 
Of  his  own  sombre  heart,  as  the  picture  she  drew 
Of  the  poor,  proud,  sad  spirit,  rejecting  love's  wages. 
Yet  working  love's  work ;  reading  backwards  life's 

pages 
For  penance  ;  and  stubbornly,  many  a  time, 
Both  missing  the  moral,  and  marring  the  rhyme. 
Then    she   spoke   of  the  soldier !    .  .  .  the   man's 

work  and  fame. 
The  pride  of  a  nation,  a  world's  just  acclaim  ! 
Life's  inward  approval  ! 

XXVIII. 

Her  voice  reach 'd  his  heart. 
And  sank  lower.  She  spoke  of  herself :  how,  apart 
And  unseen, — far  away, — she  had  watch'd,  year  by 

year, 
With  how  many  a  blessing,  how  many  a  tear, 
And  how  many  a  prayer,  every  stage  in  the  strife  : 
Guess'd  the  thought  in  the  deed  :  traced  the  love  in 

the  life  : 
Bless'd  the  man  in  the  man's  work  I 


(A-.-J 


LUCILE. 


"Thy  work  ...  oh  not  mine! 
Thine,  Lucile !"    .    .    .    he  exclaim'd  ..."  all    the 

worth  of  it  thine 
If  worth  there  be  in  it !" 

Her  answer  convey 'd 
His  reward,  and  her  own  :  joy  that  cannot  be  said 
Alone  by  the  voice  .  .  .  eyes — face — spoke  silently 
All  the  woman,  one  grateful  emotion  ! 

And  she 
A  poor  Sister  of  Charity  !  hers  a  life  spent 
In  one  silent  effort  for  others  !  .  .  . 

She  bent 
Her  divine  face  above  him,  and  till'd  up  his  heart 
With  the  look  that  glow'd  from  it. 

Then  slow,  with  soft  art. 
Fix'd  her  aim,  and  moved  to  it. 

XXIX. 

He,  the  soldier  humane. 
He,  the  hero  ;  whose  heart  hid  in  glory  the  pain 
Of  a  youth  disappointed ;  whose  life  had  made  known 
The   value   of   man's   life  !  .  .  .  that    youth   over- 
thrown 
And  retrieved,  had  it  left  him  no  pity  for  youth 
In  another  ?  his  own  life  of  strenuous  truth 
.Accomplish'd  in  act,  had  it  taught  him  no  care 
For  the  life  of  another  ?  ...  oh  no  !  everywhere 
In  the  camp  which  she  moved   through,  she  came 

face  to  face 
With  some  noble  token,  some  generous  trace 
Of  his  active  humanity  .  .  . 


L  UCILE.  329 

"  Well,"  he  replied, 
"  If  it  be  so  ?" 

"  I  come  from  the  solemn  bedside 
Of  a  man  that  is  dying,"  she  said.     "  While  we 

speak, 
A  life  is  in  jeopardy." 

"  Quick  then  !  you  seek 
Aid  or  medicine,  or  what .''" 

"  'T  is  not  needed,"  she  said. 
"  Medicine  ?  yes,  for  the  mind  I     'T  is  a  heart  that 

needs  aid  ! 
You,  Eugene  de  Luvois,  you  (and  you  only)  can 
Save  the  life  of  this  man.     Will  you  save  it.'" 

"  What  man  } 
How  ?  .  .  .  where  }  .  .  .  can  you  ask  ?" 

She  went  rapidly  on 
To  her  object  in  brief  vivid  words  .  .  .  The  young 

son 
Of  Matilda  and  Alfred— the  boy  lying  there 
Half  a  mile  from  that  tent  door — the  father's  de- 
spair. 
The  mother's  deep  anguish — the  pride  of  the  boy 
In  the  father — the  father's  one  hope  and  one  joy 
In  the  son  : — the  son  now — wounded,  dying!     She 

told 
Of  the  father's  stern  struggle  with  life  :  the  boy's 

bold. 
Pure,  and  beautiful  nature  :  the  fair  life  before  him 
If  that  life  were  but  spared  ...  yet  a  word  might 

restore  him  ! 
The  bov's  broken  love  for  the  niece  of  Eugene  ! 


'■^i     fj    .r'' 


^ 

i 


330 


LUCILE. 


\  Its  pathos  :  the  girl's  love  for  him  ;  how,  half  slain 
In  his  tent  she  had  found  him  :  won  from  him  the 

tale; 
Sought  to  nurse  back  his    life  ;    found   her  efforts 

still  fail : 
Beaten  back  by  a  love  that  was  stronger  than  life  ; 
Of  how  bravely  till  then  he  had  stood  in  that  strife 
Wherein  England  and  France  in  their  best  blood, 

at  last, 
Had  bathed  from  remembrance  the  wounds  of  the 

past. 
And  shall  nations  be  nobler  than   men  ?     Are  not 

great 
Men  the  models  of  nations  ?     For  what  is  a  state 
But  the  many's  confused  imitation  of  one  ? 
Shall  he,  the  fair  hero  of  France,  on  the  son 
Of  his  ally  seek  vengeance,  destroying  perchance 
An  innocent  life,— here,  when  England  and  France 
Have  forgiven  the  sins  of  their  fathers  of  yore, 
And  baptized  a  new  hope  in  their  sons'  recent  gore  ? 
She  went  on  to  tell  how  the  boy  had  clung  still 
To  life,  for  the  sake  of  life's  uses,  until 
From  his   weak  hands  the   strong   effort  dropp'd, 

stricken  down 
By  the  news  that  the  heart  of  Constance,  like  his  own. 
Was  breaking  beneath  .  .  . 

But  there  *'  Hold  !"  he  exclaim'd, 
Interrupting,   "forbear!"  ...  his  whole  face  was 

intiamed 
With  the  heart's  swarthy  thunder  which  yet,  while 

she  spoke, 


1 


^ 
M 


LUCILE. 


331 


Had  been  gathering  silent — at  last  the  storm  broke 
In  grief  or  in  wrath.  .  .  . 

"  'T  is  to  him,  then,"  he  cried,  .  .  . 
Checking  suddenly  short  the  tumultuous  stride, 
"  That  I  owe  these  late  greetings — for  him  yqu  are 

here — 
For  his  sake  you  seek  me — for  him,  it  is  clear, 
You  have  deign 'd  at  the  last  to  bethink  you  again 
Of  this  long-forgotten  existence  !" 

"  Eugene  !" 
"  Ha  !    fool  that    I  was  !"  .  .  .  he   went    on,  .  .  . 

"  and  just  now. 
While  you  spoke  yet,  my  heart  was  beginning  to  grow 
Almost  boyish  again,  almost  sure  of  otie  friend  ! 
Yet  this  was  the  meaning  of  all — this  the  end  I 
Be  it  so  !     There  's  a  sort  of  slow  justice  (admit !) 
In  this — that  the  word  that  man's  finger  hath  writ 
In  fire  on  my  heart,  I  return  him  at  last. 
Let  him  learn  that  word — Never  !" 

"  Ah,  still  to  the  past 
Must  the  present  be  vassal  ?"  she  said.    "  In  the  hour 
We  last  parted  I  urged  you  to  put  forth  the  power 
Which  I  felt  to  be  yours,  in  the  conquest  of  life. 
Yours,  the  promise  to  strive  :  mine, — to  watch  o'er 

the  strife. 
I  foresaw  you  would  conquer ;  you  have  conquer'd 

much. 
Much,  indeed,  that  is  noble  !     I  hail  it  as  such. 
And  am  here  to  record  and  applaud  it.     I  saw 
Not  the  less  in  your  nature,  Eugene  de  Luvois, 
One  peril — one  point  where  I  fear'd  you  would  fail 


\9- 


f*- 


5^^ 


I 


332 


/.  UCILE. 


^%V^? 


To  subdue  that  worst  foe  which  a  man  can  assail, — 
Himself :  and  I  promised  that,  if  I  should  see 
My  champion  once  falter,  or  bend  the  brave  knee, 
That  moment  would  bring  me  again  to  his  side. 
That  .moment  is  come  !  for  that  peril  was  pride. 
And  you  falter.    I  plead  for  yourself,  and  one  other, 
For  that  gentle  child  without  father  or  mother, 
To  whom  you  are  both.     I  plead,  soldier  of  France, 
For  your  own  nobler  nature — and   plead  for  Con- 
stance !" 
At  the  sound  of  that  name  he  averted  his  head. 
"Constance!  .  .  .  Ay,   she  enter'd    my   lone  life" 

(he  said) 
"When  its  sun  was  long  set ;  and  hung  over  its  night 
Her  own  starry  childhood.     I  have  but  that  light. 
In  the  midst  of  much  darkness  !     Who  names  me 

but  she 
With  titles  of  love  ?  and  what  rests  there  for  me 
In  the  silence  of  age  save  the  voice  of  that  child  .' 
The  child  of  my  own  better  life,  undefiled  ! 
My  creature,  carved  out  of  my  heart  of  hearts  !" 

"  Say," 
Said  the  Sceur  Seraphine — "  are  you  able  to  lay 
Your  hand  as  a  knight  on  your  heart  as  a  man 
And  swear  that,  whatever  may  happen,  you  can 
Feel  assured  for  the  life  you  thus  cherish  }" 

"  How  so.'  ' 
He  look'd  up.     "  If  the  boy  should  die  thus  ?" 

"  Yes,  I  know 
What  your  look  would  imply  .   .  .  this  sleek  stranger 
forsooth  ! 


1^ 


.'^^Sfe 


L  ucriE. 


333 


^K. 


Because  on  his  cheek  was  the  red  rose  of  youth 
The  heart  of  my  niece  must  break  for  it  !" 

She  cried, 
"  Nay,  but  hear  me  yet  further  !" 

With  slow  hea\  \  stride. 
Unheeding  her  words,  he  was  pacing  the  tent. 
He  was  muttering  low  to  himself  as  he  went. 
"  Ay,  these  young  things  lie  safe  in   our  heart  just 

so  long 
As  their  wings  are  in  growing  ;  and  when  these  are 

strong 
They  break  it,  and  farewell  !  the  bird  flies  I"  .  .  . 

The  nun 
Laid  her  hand  on  the  soldier,  and  murmur'd,  "  The 

sun 
Is  descending,  life  fleets  while  we  talk  thus  !  oh,  yet 
Let  this  day  upon  one  final  victory  set, 
And  complete  a  life's  conquest !" 

He  said,  "  Understand  ! 
If  Constance  wed  the  son  of  this  man,  by  whose  hand 
My  heart  hath  been  robb'd,  she  is  lost  to  my  life  I 
Can  her  home  be  my  home  ?  Can  I  claim  in  the  wife 
Of  that  man's  son  the  child  of  my  age  ?  At  her  side 
Shall  he  stand  on  my  hearth  ?  Shall  I  sue  to  the  bride 
Of  .  .  .  enough  ! 

"  Ah,  and  you  immemorial  halls 
Of  my  Norman  forefathers,  whose  shadow  yet  falls 
On  my  fancy,  and  fuses  hope,  memory,  past. 
Present, — all,  in  one  silence  !  old  trees  to  the  blast 
Of  the  North  Sea  repeating  the  tale  of  old  days. 
Nevermore,  nevermore  in  the  wild  bosky  ways 


334 


Z  UCILE. 


Shall  I  hear  through  your  umbrage  ancestral  the 

wind 
Prophesy  as  of  yore,  when  it  shook  the  deep  mind 
Of  my  boyhood,  with  whispers  from  out  the  far  years 
Of  love,  fame,  the  raptures    life  cook  down    with 

tears  ! 
Henceforth  shall  the  tread  of  a  Vargrave  alone 
Rouse  your  echoes  ?" 

"  O  think  not,"  she  said,  "  of  the  son 
Of  the  man  whom  unjustly  you  hate  ;  only  think 
Of  this  young  human  creature,   that  cries  from  the 

brink 
<^f  a  grave  to  your  mercy ! 

"  Recall  your  own  words 
(Words  my  memory  mournfully  ever  records  !) 
How  with  love  may  be  wreck'd  a  whole  life  I  then, 

Eugene, 
Look  with  me  (still  those  words  in  our  ears  I  )  once 

again 
At  this  young  soldier  sinking  from  life  here — dragg'd 

down 
By  the  weight  of  the  love  in  his  heart :  no  renown. 
No  fame  comforts  him!  nations  shout  not  above 
The  lone  grave  down  to  which  he  is  bearing  the  love 
Which  life  has  rejected  !     ^\\\  you  stand  apart  ? 
You,  with  such  a  love's  memory  deep  in  your  heart  I 
You  the  hero,  whose  life  hath  perchance  been  led  on 
Through  the   deeds  it  hath  wrought  to  the  fame  it 

hath  won, 
By  recalling  the  visions  and  dreams  of  a  youth, 
Suchasliesatyour  door  now:  who  have  but,  in  truth, 


iK. 


L  UCILE. 


335 


To  stretch  forth  a  hand,  to  speak  only  one  word, 
And  by  that  word  you  rescue  a  life  !" 

He  was  stirr'd. 

Still  he  sought  to  put  from  him  the  cup ;  bow'd  his 

face 
On  his  hand  ;  and  anon,  as  though  wishing  to  chase 
With  one  angry  gesture  his  own  thoughts  aside, 
He  sprang  up,  brush'd  past  her,  and  bitterly  cried. 
..  No  !— Constknce  wed  a  Vargrave !— I  cannot  con- 
sent !" 
Then  up  rose  the  Soeur  Seraphine. 

The  low  tent. 
In  her  sudden  uprising,  seem'd  dwarf 'd  by  the  height 
From  which  those  imperial  eyes  pour'd  the  light 
Of  their  deep  silent  sadness  upon  him. 

No  wonder 

He  felt,  as  it  were,  his  own  stature  shrink  under 
The  compulsion  of  th'at  grave  regard  !    For  between 
The  Due  de  Luvois  and  the  Soeur  Seraphine 
At  that  moment  there  rose  all  the  height  of  one  soul 
O'er  another ;  she  look'd  down  on   him  from  the 

whole 
Lonely  length  of  a  life.     There  were  sad  nights  and 

days, 
There  were  long  months  and  years  in  that  heart- 
searching  gaze  ; 
And  her  voice,  when  she  spoke,  with  sharp  pathos 

thrill'd  through 
And  transfix'd  him. 

"  Eugene  de  Luvois,  but  for  you, 
I  might  have  been  now— not  this  wandering  nun. 


But  a  mother,  a  wife — pleading,  not  for  the  son 
Of  another,  but  blessing  some  child  of  my  own, 
His, — the  man's  that  I  once  loved  !  .  .  .  Hush  !  that 

which  is  done 
1  regret  not.     I  breathe  no  reproaches.     That  "s  best 
Which  God  sends.    'T  was  His  will :  it  is  mine.  And 

the  rest 
Of  that  riddle  I  will  not  look  back  to.     He  reads 
In  your  heart —  He  that  judges  of  all  thoughts  and 

deeds. 
With  eyes,  mine  forestall  not  !     This  only  I  say  : 
You  have  not  the  right  (read  it,  you,  as  you  may !) 
To  say  ...  'I  am  the  wrong'd." "  .  .  . 

"  Have  I  wrong'd  thee.' — wrong'd  thcc !' 
He  falter'd,  "  Lucile,  ah,  Lucile  !" 

"  Nay,  not  me," 
She  murmur'd,  "  but  man  I    The  lone  nun  standing 

here 
Has  no  claim  upon  earth,  and  is  pass'd  from  the 

sphere 
Of  earth's  wrongs  and  earth's  reparations.     But  she. 
The  dead  woman,  Lucile,  she  whose  grave  is  in  me. 
Demands  from  her  grave  reparation  to  man. 
Reparation  to  God.     Heed,  O  heed,  while  you  can 
This  voice  from  the  grave  !" 

"  Hush  !"  he  moan'd,  "  I  obey 
The  Soeur  Seraphine.     There,  Lucile  !  let  this  pay 
Every  debt  that  is  due  to  that  grave.     Now  lead  on  : 
I  follow  you,  ScEur  Seraphine  !  ...  To  the  son 
Of  Lord  Alfred  Vargrave  .  .  .  and  then,  "... 

As  he  spoke 


L  UCILE. 


337 


He  lifted  the  tent-door,  and  down  the  dun  smcke 
Pointed  out  the  dark  bastions,  with  batteries  crown'd. 
Of  the  city  beneath  them  .  .  . 

"  Then,  there,  underground, 
And  valete  et  plaudite,  soon  as  may  be  ! 
Let  the  old  tree  go  down  to  the  earth— the  old  tree. 
With  the  worm  at  its  heart !    Lay  the  axe  to  the  root  ! 
Who  will  miss  the  old  stump,  so  we  save  the  young 

shoot  ? 
A  Vargrave !  .  .  .  this  pays  all  .  .  .  Lead  on  I  .   .  . 

In  the  seed 
Save  the  forest  !  .  .  . 

"I  follow  .  .  .  forth,  forth!  where  you  lead." 

XXX. 

The  day  was  declining  ;  a  day  sick  and  damp. 

In  a  blank  ghostly  glare  shone  the  bleak  ghostly 

camp 
Of  the  Enghsh.     Alone  in  his  dim,  spectral  tent 
(Himself  the  wan  spectre  of  youth),  with  eyes  bent 
On  the  daylight  departing,  the  sick  man  was  sitting 
Upon  his  low  pallet.  These  thoughts,  vaguely  flitting, 
Cross'd  the  silence  between  him  and  death,  which 

seem'd  near. 
— "  Pain  o'erreaches  itself,  so  is  balk'd !  else,  how 

bear 
This  intense  and  intolerable  solitude, 
With  its  eye  on  my  heart  and  its  hand  on  my  blood? 
Pulse  by  pulse !     Day  goes  down  :  yet  she  comes 

not  again. 
Other  suffering,  doubtless,  where  hope  is  more  plain. 


b  f'f^ 


Claims  her  elsewhere.     I  die,  strange  I  and  scarcely 

feel  sad. 

Oh,  to  think  of  Constance  //aes,  and  not  to  go  mad  I 
Hut  Death,  it  would  seem,  dulls  the  sense  to  his  own 
Dull  doings  ..." 

XXXI. 

Between  those  sick  eyes  and  the  sun 
A  shadow  fell  thwart. 

XXXII. 

'T  is  the  pale  nun  once  more  I 
But  who  stands  at  her  side,  mute  and  dark  in   the 

door .'' 
How  oft  had  he  watch'd  through  the  glory  and  gloom 
Of  the   battle,  with   long,   longing   looks  that    dim 

plume 
Which    now  (one   stray   sunbeam   upon   it)   shook. 

stoop'd 
To  where  the  tent-curtain,  dividing,  was  loop'd  ! 
How  that  stern  face  had  haunted  and  hover'd  about 
The  dreams  it  still  scared  !  through  what  fond  fear 

and  doubt 
Had  the  boy  yearn'd  in  heart  to  the  hero  !    (What's 

like 
A  boy's  love   for  some  famous  man  ?)   .   .  .  (^h.  to 

strike 
A  wild  path  through  the  battle,  down  striking  per- 
chance 
Some  rash   foeman   too  near  the  great    soldier  of 

France, 
And  so  fall  in  his  glorious  regard  I  .  .   .  <  )ft.  how  oft 


L  UCILE. 


339 


Had  his  heart  flash'd  this  hope  out,  whilst  watching 

aloft 
The  dim  battle  that  plume  dance  and  dart — never 

seen 
So  near  till  this  moment  !  how  eager  to  glean 
Every  stray  word,  dropp'd  through  the  camp-babble 

in  praise 
Of  his  hero — each  tale  of  old  venturous  days 
In  the  desert!     And  now  .  .  .  could  he  speak  out 

his  heart 
Face  to  face  with  that  man  ere  he  died  ! 

XXXIII. 

With  a  start 

The  sick  soldier  sprang  up  :  the  blood  sprang  up  in 

him, 
To  his  throat,  and  o'erthrew  him  :  he  reel'd  back  : 

a  dim 
Sanguine  haze  fiU'd  his  eyes  ;  in  his  ears  rose  the  din 
And  rush,  as  of  cataracts  loosen'd  within, 
Through  which  he  saw  faintly,  and  heard,  the  pale 

nun 
(Looking  larger  than  life,  where  she  stood  in  the  sun) 
Point  to  him  and  murmur,  "  Behold  !"     Then  that 

plume 
Seem'd  to  wave  like  a  fire,  and  fade  off  in  the  gloom 
Which  momently  put  out  the  world. 

XXXIV. 

To  his  side 

Moved  the    man   the    boy   dreaded  yet  loved  .  .  . 
••  Ah  I"  .  .  .  he  sigh'd. 


t:^ 


340 


L  UCILE. 


"  The  smooth  brow,  the  fair  \'argra\-e  face !    and 

those  eyes, 
All  the  mother's  !     The  old  things  again  ! 

"  Do  not  rise. 
You  suffer,  young  man?" 

The  Bov. 

Sir,  I  die. 

The  Duke. 

Not  so  young ! 
The  JBOY. 
So  young  ?  yes  !  and  yet  I  have  tangled  among 
The  fray'd  warp  and  woof  of  this  brief  life  of  mine 
Other  lives   than    my  own.     Could    my  death  but 

untwine 
The  vext  skein  .  .  .  but  it  will    not.     Yes,  Duke, 

young — so  young  ! 
And  I  knew  you  not .-'  yet  I  have  done  you  a  wrong 
Irreparable  !  .  .  .  late,  too  late  to  repair. 
If  I  knew  any  means  .  .  .  but  I  know  none  I  ...  I 

swear. 
If  this  broken  fraction  of  time  could  extend 
Into  infinite  lives  of  atonement,  no  end 
Would  seem  too  remote  for  my  grief  (could  that  be  !) 
To  include  it !     Not  too  late,  however,  for  me 
To  entreat :  is  it  too  late  for  you  to  forgive .-' 

The  Duke. 
You  wrong — my  forgiveness — explain. 

The  Boy. 

Could  I  live! 
Such  a  ven'  few  hours  left  to  life,  vet  I  shrink. 


^.- 


LUCILE. 


341 


■  Off  !  he 


I  falter!  .  .  .  Yes,  Duke,  your  forgiveness  I  think 
Should  free  my  soul  hence. 

Ah  !  you  could  not  surmise 
That  a  boy's  beating  heart,  burning  thoughts,  long- 
ing eyes 
Were  following  you  evermore  (heeded  not !) 
While  the  battle  was  flowing  between  us  :  nor  what 
Eager,  dubious  footsteps  at  nightfall  oft  went 
With  the  wind  and  the  rain,  round  and  round  your 

blind  tent. 
Persistent  and  wild  as  the  wind  and  the  rain, 
Unnoticed  as  these,  weak  as  these,  and  as  vain  !  - 
Oh,  how  obdurate  then  look'd  your  tent !    The  waste 

air 
Orew  stern  at  the  gleam  which  said  . 

is  there !" 
I  know  not  what  merciful  mystery  now 
Brings  you  here,  whence  the  man  whom  you   see 

lying  low 
Other  footsteps  (not  those  !)  must  soon  hear  to  the 

grave. 
But  death  is  at  hand,  and  the  few  words  I  have 
Yet  to  speak,  I  must  speak  them  at  once. 

Duke,  I  swear. 
As  I  lie  here  (Death's  angel  too  close  not  to  hear!). 
That    I    meant   not    this  wrong  to   you.     Due    de 

Luvois, 
I  loved  your  niece— loved  ?  why,  I  love  her  !    I  saw, 
And,  seeing,  how  could  I  but  love  her?     I  seem'd 
Born    to  love  her.     Alas,  were    that    all !     Had    I 
dream 'd 


342 


^^-->*«.;^:r;rF^af,^p%P^?.jL^^^^^7^^^r'-Yli^ 


L  UCILE. 


Of  this  love's  cruel  consequence  as  it  rests  now 
E\er  fearfully  present  before  me.  I  vow- 
That  the  secret,  unknown,  had  gone  down  to  the 

tomb 
Into   which    I    descend   ...  Oh   why,  whilst    there 

was  room 
In  life  left  for  warning,  had  no  one  the  heart 
To  warn  me  .-     Had  any  one  whisper 'd  ..."  De- 
part !" 
To  the  hope  the  whole  world  seem'd  in  league  then 

to  nurse  I 
Had  any  one  hinted  ..."  Beware  of  the  curse 
Which  is  coming !"     There  was  not  a  voice  raised 

lo  tell. 
Not  a  hand  moved  to  warn  from  the  blow  ere  it  fell. 
And  then  .  .  .  then  the  blow  fell  on  both  !  This  is  why 
I  implore  you  to  pardon  that  great  injur)- 
Wrought  on  her,  and,  through  her,  wrought  on  vou. 

Heaven  knows 
How  unwittingh  ! 

The  Duke. 
Ah  !  .  .  .  and,  young  soldier,  suppose 
That  I  came  here  to  seek,  not  grant,  pardon  .'— 


The  Boy. 
The   Duke. 


Of  wiiom  ■* 


<  )f  yourself. 

The  Boy. 
Duke,  I  bear  in  my  heart  to  the  tomb 
No  boyish  resentment ;  not  one  lonely  thougin 


yf 


%M^ 


L  UCILE. 


343 


That  honors  you  not.     In  all  this  there  is  naught 

'T  is  for  me  to  forgive. 

Every  glorious  act 

Of  your  great  life  starts  forward,  an  eloquent  fact. 

To  confirm  in  my  boy's  heart  its  faith  in  your  own. 

And  have  I  not  hoarded,  to  ponder  upon, 

A  hundred  great  acts  from  your  life  ?  Nay,  all  these, 

Were  they  so  many  lying  and  false  witnesses, 

Does    there    rest    not   one  voice,  which  was  never 

untrue  ? 

I  believe  in  Constance,  Duke,  as  she  does  in  you  ! 

In  this  great  world  around  us,  wherever  we  turn, 

Some  grief  irremediable  we  discern  ; 

And  yet — there  sits  God,  calm  in  Heaven  above  ! 

Do  we  trust  one  whit  less  in  his  justice  or  love  ? 

I  judge  not. 

The  Duke. 

Enough !     Hear  at  last,  then,  the  truth. 
Your  father  and  I — foes  we  were  in  our  youth. 
It  matters  not  why.    Yet  thus  much  understand  : 
The  hope  of  my  youth  was  sign'd  out  by  his  hand. 
I  was  not  of  those  whom  the  buffets  of  fate 
Tame  and  teach  :  and  my  heart  buried  slain  love  in 

hate. 
If  your  own  frank  young  heart,  yet  unconscious  of  all 
Which  turns  the  heart's  blood  in  its  springtide  to  gall. 
And  unable  to  guess  even  aught  that  the  furrow 
Across  these  gray  brows  hides  of  sin  or  of  sorrow. 
Comprehends  not  the  evil  and  grief  of  my  life, 
'Twill  at  least  comprehend  how   intense  was   thi- 

strife 


"^ 


LUCILE. 

Which  is  closed  in  this  act  of  atonement,  wherebv 
I  seek  in  the  son  of  my  youth's  enemy 
The  friend  ol  my  age.     Let  the  present  release 
Here  acquitted  the  past !    In  the  name  of  my  niece, 
Whom  for  my  life  in  yours  as  a  hostage  I  gi\e. 
Are  you  great  enough,  boy,  to  forgive    me, — and 
live? 

Whilst  he  spoke  thus,  a  doubtful  tumultuous  joy 

Chased  its  fleeting  effects  o'er  the  face  of  the  boy : 

As  when  some  stormy  moon,  in  a  long  cloud  con- 
fined. 

Struggles    outward  through  shadows,   the  varying 
wind 

Alternates,    and    bursts,    self-surprised,    from    her 
prison, 

So  that  slow  joy  grew  clear  in  his  face.      He  had 
risen 

To  answer  the  Duke  ;  but  strength  fail'd  every  limb  ; 

A  strange,  happy  feebleness  trembled  through  him. 

With  a  faint  cry  of  rapturous  wonder,  he  sank 

On  the  breast  of  the  nun,  who  stood  near. 

"  Yes,  boy  !  thank 

This  guardian  angel,"  the  Duke  said.     "  I  —  you. 

We  owe  all  to  her.    Crown  her  work.    Live  !  be  true 

To  your  young   life's  fair  promise,  and  live  for  her 
sake  !" 

"Yes,  Duke  :   I  will  live.     I  must  live— live  to  make 

My  whole  life  the  answer  you  claim,"  the  boy  said, 

"  For  joy  does  not  kill  !" 

Hack  again  the  faint  head 


L  UCILE. 


345 


Declined  on  the  nun's  gentle  bosom.     She  saw 
His  lips  quiver,  andmotion'd  the  Duke  to  withdraw 
And  leave  them  a  moment  together. 

He  eyed 
Them  both  with  a  wistful  regard ;  turn'd,  and  sigh'd, 
And  lifted  the  tent-door,  and  pass'd  from  the  tent. 
XXXV. 

Like  a  furnace,  the  fervid,  intense  Occident 
From  its  hot  seething  levels  a  great  glare  struck  up 
On  the  sick  metal  sky.     And,  as  out  of  a  cup 
Some  witch  watches  boiling  wild  portents  arise. 
Monstrous  clouds,  mass'd,  misshapen,  and  ting'd 

with  strange  dyes, 
Huver'd  over  the  red  fume,  and  changed  to  weird 

shapes 
As  of  snakes,  salamanders,  efts,  lizards,  storks,  apes. 
Chimeras,  and  hydras  :  whilst— ever  the  same— 
In  the  midst  of  all  these  (creatures   fused   by   his 

flame, 
And  changed  by  his  influence  !)  changeless,  as  when. 
Ere  he  lit  down  to  death  generations  of  men. 
O'er  that  crude  and  ungainly  creation,  which  there 
With  wild  shapes  this  cloud-world  seem'd  to  mimic 

in  air. 
The  eye  of  Heaven's  all-judging  witness,  he  shone. 
And  shall  shine  on  the  ages  we  reach  not— the  sun  ! 

XXXVI. 

Nature  posted  her  parable  thus  in  the  skies, 
And  the  man's  heart  bore  witness.     Life's  vapors 
arise 


:.» 


^^•r:^^ 


"^ 


LUCILE. 


And   fall,  pass  and  change,  group  themselves    and 

revolve 
Round  the  great  central  life,  which  is  Love  :  these 

dissolve 
And  resume  themselves,  here  assume  beauty,  there 

terror ; 
And  the  phantasmagoria  of  infinite  error. 
And  endless  complexity,  lasts  but  a  while  ; 
Life's  self,  the  immortal,  immutable  smile 
Of  God,  on  the  soul,  in  the  deep  heart  of  Heaven 
Lives  changeless,  unchanged  :  and  our  morning  and 

even 
Are  earth's  alternations,  not  Heaven's. 

XXXVII. 

While  he  yet 

Watch 'd  the  skies,  with  this  thought  in  his  heart  ; 
while  he  set 

Thus  unconsciously  all  his  life  forth  in  his  mind, 

Summ'd  it  up,  search'd  it  out,  proved  it  vapor  and 
wind. 

And  embraced  the  new  life  which  that  hour  had 
reveal'd, — 

Love's  life,  which  earth's  life  had  defaced  and  con- 
ceal'd  ; 

Lucile  left  the  tent  and  stood  by  him. 

Her  tread 

Aroused  him  ;  and,  turning  towards  her,  he  said  : 

•■  O  Soeur  Seraphine,  are  you  happy?" 

"  Eugene, 

What  is  happier  than  to  have  hoped  not  in  vain  ?"" 

She  answer'd, — "  And  you  ?'" 


\ 


•J^"^^  i^ 


"'^ 


■',;♦, 


LUCILE. 


Yes." 


^■^----T-— -T?OT?^.^ 


34: 


"You  do  not  repent  ?" 
"No." 

"  Thank  Heaven  !"  she  murmur'd.     He  musinj^^ly 

bent 
His  looks  on  the  sunset,  and  somewhat  apart 
Where  he  stood,  sigh'd,  as  though  to  his  innermost 

heart, 
"  O  blessed  are  they,  amongst  whom  I  was  not, 
Whose  morning  unclouded,  without  stain  or  spot, 
Predicts  a  pure  evening  ;  who,  sunlike,  in  light 
Have    traversed,    unsullied,    the    world,    and    set 

bright !" 

But  she  in  response,  "  Mark  yon  ship  far  away. 

Asleep  on  the  wave,  in  the  last  light  of  day, 

With  all  its  hush'd  thunders  shut  up  !     Would  you 

know 
A  thought  which  came  to  me  a  few  days  ago, 
Whilst  watching  those  ships  ?  .  .  .  When  the  great 

Ship  of  Life 
Surviving,  though  shatter'd,  the  tumult  and  strife 
Of  earth's  angry  element, — masts  broken  short. 
Decks  drench'd,  bulwarks  beaten — drives  safe  into 

port. 
When  the  Pilot  of  Galilee,  seen  on  the  strand, 
Stretches  over  the  waters  a  welcoming  hand  ; 
When,  heeding  no  longer  the  sea's  baffled  roar. 
The  mariner  turns  to  his  rest  evermore  ; 
What  will  then  be  the  answer  the  helmsman  must 


'>^ 


348 


L  UCILE. 


Will  it  be  ...  '  Lo  our  log-book  !  Thus  once  did 
we  live 

In  the  zones  of  the  South  ;  thus  we  traversed  the  seas 

Of  the  Orient ;  there  dwelt  with  the  Hesperides  ; 

Thence  foUow'd  the  west  wind  ;  here,  eastward  we 
turn'd  ; 

The  stars  fail'd  us  there  ;  just  here  land  we  dis- 
cern'd 

On  our  lee  ;  there  the  storm  overtook  us  at  last ; 

That  day  went  the  bowsprit,  the  next  day  the  mast ; 

There  the  mermen  came  round  us,  and  there  we 
saw  bask 

A  siren  ? '     The  Captain  of  Port  will  he  ask 

Any  one  of  such  questions?     I  cannot  think  so! 

But  .  .  .  '  What  is  the  last  Bill  of  Health  you  can 
show  } ' 

Not — How  fared  the  soul  through  the  trials  she 
pass'd  } 

But — What  is  the  state  of  that  soul  at  the  last  ?" 

"  May  it  be  so  !"  he  sigh'd.    "  There  !  the  sun  drops, 

behold  !" 
And  indeed,  whilst  he  spoke  all  the  purple  and  gold 
In  the  west  had  turn'd  ashen,  save  one  fading  strip 
Of  light  that  yet  gleam 'd  from  the  dark  nether  lij) 
Of  a  long  reef  of  cloud  ;  and  o'er  sullen  ravines 
And  ridges    the  raw    damps  were    hanging  white 

screens 
Of  melancholy  mist. 

"  Nunc  dimittis  !"  she  said. 
"O  (ii)(i  of  the  living!  whilst  yet  'mid  the  dead 


L  UCILE. 


349 


And  the  dying  we  stand  here  alive,  and  thy  days 
Returning,  admit  space  for  prayer  and  for  praise, 
In  both  these  confirm  us  ! 

"  The  helmsman,  Eugene, 
Needs  the  compass  to  steer  by.  Pray  always.  Again 
We  two  part  :  each  to  work  out  Heaven's  will  :  you, 

trust, 
In  the  world's  ample  witness;  and  I,  as  I  must, 
In  secret  and  silence  :  you,  love,  fame,  await ; 
Me,  sorrow  and  sickness.     We  meet  at  one  gate 
When  all 's  o\er.    The  ways  they  are  many  and  wide. 
And  seldom  are  two  ways  the  same.     Side  by  side 
May  we  stand  at  the  same  little  door  when   all 's 

done  ! 
The  ways  they  are  many,  the  end  it  is  one. 
He  that  knocketh  shall  enter :  who  asks  shall  obtain  : 
And  who  seeketh,  he  findeth.  Remember,  Eugene  !" 
She  turn'd  to  depart. 

"Whither?  whither.?"  .  .  .  he  said 
She  stretch'd  forth  her  hand  where,  already  out- 
spread 
On  the  darken'd  horizon,  remotely  they  saw 
The  French  camp-fires  kindling. 

"  O  Due  de  Luvois, 
See  yonder  vast  host,  with  its  manifold  heart 
Made  as  one  man's  by  one  hope  !     That  hope  't  is 

your  part 
To  aid  towards  achievement,  to  save  from  reverse  : 
Mine,    through    suffering   to   soothe,   and    through 

sickness  to  nurse. 
I  go  to  my  work  :  you  to  yours." 


350 


Z  UCILE. 


xxxviu. 

Whilst  she  spoke, 
On  the  wide  wasting  evening  there  distantly  broke 
The  low  roll  of  musketry.     Straightway,  anon, 
I'>om  the  dim  Flag-staff  Batter)'  bellow  "d  a  gun. 
"  Our  chasseurs  are  at  it !"  he  mutter'd. 

She  turn'd, 
Smiled,  and  pass'd  up  the  twilight. 

He  faintly  discern'd 
Her  form,  now  and  then,  on  the  flat  lurid  sky 
Rise,  and  sink,  and  recede  through  the  mists  :  !)v 

and  by 
The  vapors  closed  round,  and  he  saw  her  no  more. 

XXXIX. 

Nor  shall  we.     For  her  mission,  accomplish'd,  is 

o'er. 
The  mission  of  genius  on  earth  !     To  uplift. 
Purify,  and  confirm  by  its  own  gracious  gift. 
The  world,  in  despite  of  the  world's  dull  endeavor 
To  degrade,  and  drag  down,  and  oppose  it  forever. 
The  mission  of  genius  :  to  watch,  and  to  wait. 
To  renew,  to  redeem,  and  to  regenerate. 
The  mission  of  woman  on  earth  !  to  gi\e  birth 
To  the  mercy  of  Heaven  descending  on  earth. 
The  mission  of  woman  :  permitted  to  bruise 
The  head  of  the  .serpent,  and  sweetly  infuse. 
Through  the  sorrow  and  .sin  of  earth's   register'd 

curse. 
The  blessing  which  mitigates  all :  born  to  nurse, 
And  to  soothe,  and  to  solace,  to  hel])  and  to  heal 
The  sick  world  thai  leans  on  her.     This  was  Lucile. 


J.^ 


^  JoM^  _  J^^-     ^  ^ 


I' 


r 


■'SSii, 


Z  UCILE. 


XL. 


351 


A  power  hid  in  pathos  :  a  fire  veil'd  in  cloud  : 

Yet  still  burning  outward :  a  branch  which,  though 

bow'd 
By  the  bird  in  its  passage,  springs  upward  again  : 
Through  all  symbols  I  search  for  her  sweetness--in 

vain  ! 
judge  her  love  by  her  life.     For  our  life  is  but  love 
In  act.     Pure  was  hers  :  and  the  dear  God  above, 
Who  knows  what  His   creatures  have   need  of   for 

life. 
And  whose  love   includes  all   loves,  through   much 

patient  strife 
Led  her  soul   into  peace.     Love,  though  love    may 

be  given 
In  vain,  is  yet  lovely.     Her  own  native  heaven 
More  clearly  she  mirror'd,  as  life's  troubled  dream 
Wore  away  ;  and  love  sigh'd  into  rest,  like  a  stream 
That  breaks  its  heart  over  wild  rocks  toward  the 

shore 
Of  the  great  sea  which  hushes  it  up  evermore 
With  its   little  wild  wailing.     No   stream  from  its 

source 
Flows  seaward,  how  lonely  soever  its  course. 
But  what  some  land  is  gladden'd.     No  star  ever 

rose 
And  set,  without  influence  somewhere.  Who  knows 
What  earth  needs   from  earth's  lowest   creature  ? 

No  life 
Can  be  pure  in  its  purpose  and  strong  in  its  strife 
And  all  life  not  be  purer  and  stronger  thereby. 


352 


LUCILE. 


The  spirits  of  just  men  made  perfect  on  high. 
The  army  of  martyrs  who  stand  by  the  Throne 
And  gaze  into  the  Face  that  makes  glorious  their 

own, 
Know   this,    surely,  at   last.     Honest    love,   honest 

sorrow. 
Honest   work    for    the    day.    honest    hope    for   the 

morrow. 
Are  these  worth  nothing  more  than  the  hand   they 

make  weary. 
The  heart  thev  have  sadden'd,  the    life  they  leavt- 

dreary  ? 
Hush  !  the  sevenfold   heavens   to   the  voice  of  the 

Spirit 
Echo:  He  that  o'ercometh  shall  all  things  inherit. 

XLI. 

The  moon  was,  in  fire,  carried  up  through  the  fog  ; 

The  loud  fortress  bark'd  at  her  like  a  chain'd  dog 

The  horizon  pulsed  flame,  the  air  sound.     All  with- 
out. 

War   and    winter,    and    twilight,    and    terror,    and 
doubt  ; 

All  within,  light,  warmth,  calm  ! 

In  the  twilight,  longwhile 

Eugene  de  Luvois  with  a  deep,  thoughtful  smile 

Linger'd,  looking,  and  listening,  lone  by  the  tent. 

At  last  he  withdrew,  and  night  closed  as  he  went. 


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